


What Makes Us (Alive and Despicable)

by Eagle_Grass_16



Series: Altera Occasio [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Alexander is a tease, Alexander sucks at comforting ppl, Angst, Birthday, Christmas, Confrontations, Dorks, Driving, Drunk Thomas Jefferson, Ethical Dilemmas, Flirting, Fluff, Food, Fourth of July, Gunshot Wounds, Headaches & Migraines, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Melodrama, Memory Loss, Moral Dilemmas, Mutual Pining, New York City, Rape (mentioned), Sex, Sexual Content, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Shopping, Time Travel, Travel, and waking up early, more kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-06-14 07:58:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 39,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15384234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eagle_Grass_16/pseuds/Eagle_Grass_16
Summary: Alexander Hamilton finds himself somehow alive, breathing, in a world completely different from the one in which he’d died.And it just so happens that he stumbles across Thomas Jefferson, Ex-Slave Owner and Hypocrite Extraordinaire, who takes him in and seems to be not so terrible, but some things really can't be forgiven--____________________________________Is “not remembering” a valid excuse for bad things done?





	1. Neon Yellow

**Author's Note:**

> *listens to Hamilton soundtrack  
> *decides to write fanfic  
> *does research  
> *thinks: wtf thomas jefferson was a terrible person i can't write him  
>  **But here it is anyway.**

He’d blinked himself into existence, he thought, as the rest of him caught up with the fact that _he wasn’t dead._

He swallowed, grimaced at the rank taste of his mouth; wriggled his toes--they were _freezing_ \--in his worn shoes. (They were awfully peculiar shoes, he noted, with some sort of cords threaded through them.) Gingerly twisting his neck this way and that, he surveyed his surroundings with wary curiosity, his stomach coiling into unsolvable knots, his spine informing him that he--or his body, at least--had been sitting in this position (against the wall, hunched forward, head formerly drooping downwards) for a while.

The brick wall behind him was uneven, with angles jutting out irregularly, and he wondered why he had chosen to sit here like this-- _if_ he had been the person to choose, because, well, by _his_ logic (which is nothing short of immaculate), he should be dead.

 _Shot._ By Burr--that selfish, insufferable _fool._

He was in an alley, Alexander Hamilton guessed. Wearing nothing more than a shirt, an uncomfortable pair of pants that were a faded shade of blue (he picked at the coarse fabric with disdain), and a dirty jacket that was slightly damp with some unknown substance at the hems. He scrunched up his nose, because _how unhygienic_ , but then sighed, because it was not like this was the worst he’d ever been.

It was daytime, he determined from the light cast about him, and--

God, his hands were _icicles._ So were his ears. Why was he not _dead?_ he wondered again.

Alexander pushed himself off the ground, keeping the wincing to a minimum as shards of pain shot through his legs, his arms, his shoulders, his back--and basically every other part of his body. Stepping out the open end of the alley, Alexander let his eyes roam the scene before him, feeling with each passing moment a mounting sense of dread.

Strange, shiny vehicles crammed roads covered with some sort of pavement--completely different from the brown, dusty dirt roads that Alexander was familiar with--and after a bit of squinting, he realized that they were carrying _people_ within their metallic frames. _Cars,_ he thought, although none of the cars he’d ever heard of had looked or been described as anything like what he was seeing right now, and there were _so many_ of them, and they moved _so fast,_ and _where was this place?_ With a deepening frown, Alexander took in the other peculiarities around him: flashing billboards that flickered with images; people, so many people, walking past in unfamiliar attires and not sparing him a glance; impossibly tall buildings looming in the distance; and _colors_ \--garish, exaggerated, blinding colors--adorning every wall, every window, the clothes of every person hurrying past Alexander in that identical self-absorbed way.

He had not felt this way in a long, long time. Had not allowed himself to feel like this since the day he met George Washington and his life--the meaningful part of his life--had begun. He had not felt this way when on the battlefield, death so tangible that it had felt as if it would be touchable were he to just reach out his fingers; nor had he felt this way when his proposals were brutally voted down, when no one believed in his work, when he was treated like he’d gone mad. He had not felt this way when his affair with Maria Reynolds had been unveiled, when he had gone home to Eliza’s wounded countenance. Had not felt this way when he had stood across from Aaron Burr, each of them gripping a gun in his hand.

And Alexander _hated_ feeling this way--he absolutely detested this feeling of being lost, small, insignificant in a world that did not know he existed and did not care to know. He hated it, being orphaned by the universe.

He dragged in a steadying breath, pressing his lips together at the grimy feel of the air here: stale, rank, as if doped with a bit of overripe fruit, a bit of soured milk, a bit of burnt toast-- _unpleasant._

He opened his mouth, intending to speak with one of the passersby, to ask about this absurd place, but all that emerged from his throat was a coarse noise, a strangled, incomprehensible rasp. Alexander coughed, swallowed down bitter phlegm--what he wouldn’t give for some water right now, he thought--and tried again. This time, he managed.

“Excuse me,” he said, waving at a woman in a puffy, bright jacket, the color of which was somewhere between green and yellow, but also not quite; it seemed to glow.

He was so momentarily preoccupied by the color of the fabric that when the woman turned a mildly irritated expression to him, he asked, “What color is that?”

The woman’s brows furrowed. “What?” she said, her voice clipped.

“Your jacket,” Alexander clarified. “What is that color called?”

“It’s neon yellow,” she answered. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Neon yellow…” Alexander echoed, racking his brain for any clue of the foreign term. What he came up with wasn’t very helpful: the Greek word _néon,_  which meant _new._

“Weird dude,” he heard the woman mutter, and before Alexander could stop her, she’d strode off.

It was getting lighter--morning, then, and approaching noon--and for that, Alexander was grateful; with more sunlight must come more warmth, right? He wandered farther from the alley where he’d woke up, slipping seamlessly into the flow of people. Every few steps the scent of the air seemed to shift, and he could never decide whether the new smell was an improvement over the previous ones. After a few minutes of walking aimlessly, he decided to explore one of those buildings which he’d assumed to be stores. When the doors opened before he had even made contact with them, he started, and his subsequent steps were cautious as he entered.

His body seemed to relax--it was _warm_ in here. Alexander peered at shelves after shelves of bags and boxes of colorful items he’d never seen, although there was only one thing he really wanted.

“Excuse me,” he said to a man dressed in a black-and-red uniform. “Do you know where I can find water?”

“Bottled water is down aisle three, over there,” the man replied, pointing. If he found Alexander’s appearance to be peculiar, he made no comment.

“Thank you,” Alexander said. He turned and went the direction of the man’s finger.

Alexander found the water without much difficulty, in clear bottles made with a material that he didn't know, but-- _what in the world?--_ why were there so many fucking brands of _water?_ He patted his pockets and found, not to his surprise, that he had no money on him… Speaking of which, he didn’t even know what currency this was, let alone how much it was _worth_ (but if this was the dollar that he knew, then this water was insanely expensive).

He sighed and, resigned, left the store empty-handed, throat parched as his body suffered an involuntary shiver. It was _too damn cold_ to be homeless.

 _That’s what I am,_ he thought bitterly. _Homeless._

_Again._

Alexander felt his hands curling into fists and his mind giving rise to a headache. He wished he were dead: being dead would be preferable to being here, wherever _here_ was.

On another note--maybe he _was_ dead, and this was what death was like.

\---

Alexander kept walking, not knowing where he was going but making observations about his surroundings as thoroughly as possible. Which was a good thing, considering what followed: he found a bookstore.

Once again, the doors slid apart without his having to do anything, and Alexander trudged in on weary footsteps. The bookstore, like the first store he had gone in, was blissfully warm, a fact that he found fascinating--there wasn’t a fireplace, nor was there a fire, and he had not seen any smoke from outside the building, so how was it warm?

He waved away the thought and allowed himself to, at least for a few moments, bask in the pleasant temperature and the scent of bound texts that, thankfully, was the same as he remembered. He took in stands and shelves of books and what were labeled “Magazines,” slightly breathless at the intricacies of their print. The covers were much more detailed than those he was used to--he might have even described them as distractingly flamboyant--and Alexander had the suspicion that these covers served less for protection and more for decoration.

Nevertheless, he approached the books with a familiar, calming sense of excitement. The first shelves that greeted him boasted “Brand New Releases,” and with a mental shrug, Alexander headed towards them. As he trailed his fingers across the shelves and down the spines of the books, he was taken aback by the predominance of fictional publications and the number of female-sounding names.

An idea struck him, and he picked up a random book and inspected the front and back covers, then flipped a page, and another, and another--and then he found it: the publication information. His eyes scanned the page, and when they found what they’d been searching for, Alexander frowned and squinted and almost dropped the book, because this couldn’t possibly be _real._

He and Burr had dueled in 1804. He had _died_ in 1804. So how was it possible that he was here, standing in a magically heated bookstore, holding a book that claimed to be published _more than 200 years later?_

Alexander put the book back and picked up another, flipped to its publication information, and was greeted with the same result. Shakily, he took a step away from the bookshelf and raked his gaze around him in a disbelieving circumspection. _How was this possible?_

Everything had changed, everyone he’d known was fucking _dead,_ and _he_ should be dead. Yet--he was here, now, and buried under his horror and dread was a kernel of eager thrill. This was still America, and he couldn’t wait to discover what this country, _his_ country, had become.

If he could first manage to figure out a way to survive, that is.

Alexander wandered deeper into the bookstore until he arrived at the section with the sign “Current Affairs & Politics.” Pretty soon, though, he gave up trying to make sense of what he was reading--there were too many names that he had never heard of, too many terms used in ways he had never seen them used.

Frustrated, he stalked over to the “History” section and was browsing the shelves and adding books to the stack in his arms when his concentration was interrupted by a choked noise coming from a nearby corner. Alexander turned, more curious than alarmed, towards the sound, wondering halfheartedly if the person was all right.

He didn’t recognize him at first, dressed as he was in the strange fashion of this time. He wore the same type of corded shoes, though whereas the ones on Alexander’s feet were a faded gray, his were an ostentatious purple. His shirt was long-sleeved and collarless, with black and gray stripes. Whatever material it was made of, it looked warmer than what Alexander himself was wearing (and cleaner, too, but that was a given). A dark, wine-red jacket was draped haphazardly over his lap, and on top of it was an open book, with one of the man’s fingers acting as a bookmark while he gaped at Alexander.

“ _Jefferson,_ ” Alexander breathed, this time actually dropping the books he had been holding.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Fact: neon the element was discovered in 1898
> 
> 2\. Tries to write time travel → googles stuff like “heating systems history” and “first occurrence of the word penthouse” and “historical usage of fuck"


	2. Really Strong Cables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thomas Takes Alexander Home

Something flashed in the man’s eyes, too fast for Alexander to identify, though he thought--he _hoped_ \--that it was recognition. But the next moment it was gone, and the man’s face rearranged itself into a perfect portrait of confusion.

“Yes, that’s me… Who are _you?_ ” he asked.

Alexander’s chest seemed to fall with disappointment. Who knew that there would come a day he’d be _glad_ to see Thomas fucking Jefferson?

“I’m… My name is Alexander,” he said. “Alexander Hamilton.”

The man’s mouth curved in amusement. He lifted his book, showing Alexander the cover. “ _The_ Alexander Hamilton?”

Alexander scanned the cover to find his own name printed in large, bold print. It was a biography of _him,_ he realized. He wasn't sure how he felt about having his life story analyzed by some stranger, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

“Uh,” he said, eloquently. How was he supposed to answer the question?

Thankfully, Jefferson-- _this_ Jefferson--chuckled before he had to answer. “Just kidding. My name’s Thomas Jefferson, so I totally get it.” He smiled, and Alexander blinked, because it was _strange_ to have _Thomas Jefferson_ _smiling_ _at him_. ”Nice to meet you, Alexander Hamilton. And nice name.”

“... Thank you,” Alexander replied lamely.

“Do you live around here?” Jefferson asked.

 _Here goes nothing._ “Well, no. I’m lost, actually.”

Jefferson's eyebrows rose. “Lost?”

“This will sound strange but--I woke up in an alley and I don't know where I am.”

“Hmm, well, you’re in New York City, if that helps?”

Alexander felt his eyes widen, because--” _This_ is _New York?_ ”

That was amusement in Jefferson's eyes, Alexander was sure of it. He probably found this entire thing _funny,_ damn it.

“Yes, you’re in NYC, the most populous city in the United States…” Jefferson eyed him appraisingly. “And you don't have anywhere to go, do you?”

Well, at least _he_ wasn't the one to say it out loud, Alexander thought as he shrugged and nodded. “You could say that.”

Jefferson pushed himself off the floor and stood. He slotted the Alexander Hamilton biography that he had been reading back onto the shelf. “Come over to my place,” he said.

Alexander was caught between feeling relieved and feeling wary, but all things considered, this seemed to be the best option he had at the moment, so he said, “Thank you.”

He’d begun retrieving the books he’d dropped from the floor and was placing them back onto the shelves when Jefferson said, “Pick a few.”

“I don't have money,” Alexander replied honestly.

“I do.”

If the man himself was offering… “Thank you,” Alexander said, feeling slightly strange--this was the _second time_ he’d thanked Thomas Jefferson in the past five minutes, and he wasn't used to it.

\---

He should've known better. Thomas fought the urge to laugh as he took in the sight of Hamilton positively _agonizing_ over which books to get. Finally, he said, generously, “All right, pick as many as you want.”

The man’s eyes practically lit up, a stark contrast to his ragged appearance, and Thomas watched with a building mixture of amusement and trepidation as he watched the stack of books in Hamilton's arms grow. When Hamilton was finally done, Thomas let out a breath that he hadn't realized he’d been holding.

“Here,” Hamilton said, holding out a foot-tall pile of books.

Thomas turned wordlessly and headed for the register, Hamilton following behind. As the cashier scanned the barcodes on the covers of each book, as Thomas took out his credit card and swiped it, as the machine spat out the length of the receipt with a mechanical whir, Thomas could feel curiosity oozing from Hamilton’s gaze.

It was completely relatable; Thomas had more or less been the same when _he_ had first found himself in this world.

Perhaps that was why, despite all their misgivings with each other, Thomas had decided to help him. Of course, he’d never completely agree with all of Hamilton's views, but having lived here, in this time, for three years (give or take), he couldn’t not admit that much of what Hamilton had proposed was ingenious. Nothing like a few hundred years to put you in perspective, after all.

Thomas put on his jacket as, plastic bags in hand, Hamilton followed him out the bookstore.

“Fuck, it's cold,” the man said, the teeth-chattering almost audible.

“It’s _winter,_ what did you expect?” Thomas retorted.

Hamilton didn't reply. He remained quiet as he treaded slowly behind Thomas.

It was a good thing that he’d driven here, Thomas thought as his car came into sight. He imagined it would be quite troublesome for Hamilton to lug all those books around on the subway.

Plus, Hamilton's open fascination with his car was strangely satisfying.

“Buckle in your seatbelt,” Thomas told him.

“Seatbelt?”

“Like this,” Thomas said, buckling in his own. “On your other side.”

“Right. Okay.” After a bit of fumbling that Thomas found disconcertingly amusing, Hamilton's seatbelt gave a _click_ and Thomas started up the car.

A few minutes of driving in silence, and Thomas asked a question that he knew his companion wouldn't be able to answer. “How old are you?”

“... I don't exactly know,” Hamilton admitted.

“You don't know how old you are?”

Thomas saw Hamilton's grimace in the corner of his vision. “I don’t.”

“Mmhm,” Thomas replied. “Okay.”

“... How old do I look?”

Stopping at a red light, Thomas turned and gave Hamilton a brief once-over. “I’d say… mid-twenties?”

Hamilton frowned contemplatively. “Huh, okay.” He peered at Thomas, squinting. “You really do look like someone I once knew,” he said, “a younger version of him, the last time I saw him.”

“... Was his name also Jefferson?”

“Yes,” he said. “Truly a remarkable coincidence.”

“Truly remarkable,” Thomas agreed readily. He wondered how long he could keep up this charade, of just _happening_ to be a guy named Thomas Jefferson who looked exactly like _the_ Thomas Jefferson (but only Hamilton would know that, since nobody else here actually knew what he looked like).

When Thomas parked below his penthouse apartment, it was slightly past noon. They both got out of the car, and Thomas watched as Hamilton gaped at the sheer height of Manhattan buildings with eyes filled with fearful wonder.

“Unbelievable,” the man murmured under his breath, and Thomas didn't bother stifling the curvature of his lips.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing for Hamilton to follow.

They stepped into the buildings and Hamilton's shoulders seemed to unwind with the warmth. They waited for a few moments in front of the elevator doors after Thomas had pressed the up button, and when the doors slid open and Thomas stepped in without hesitation, Hamilton stared at the metal space with suspicious confusion and asked, “What is that room?”

“It’s an elevator.”

“An elevator?”

“Yes. It’ll get us up the floors faster than we would by climbing stairs.”

Hamilton looked at him for a few seconds before he appeared to deem it a risk worth taking and stepped into the elevator.

Thomas scanned his keys on the elevator pad for clearance to press the button for the top floor. Hamilton's knuckles, he noticed, were white from his gripping the handrails, his grasp growing tighter as the elevator accelerated upwards.

“Relax, Hamilton. This is a perfectly sturdy elevator,” Thomas reassured him.

“But how is it going up?”

“Metal cables.”

“So we’re suspended in air by some _cables?_ ”

“They’re _thick_ cables,” Thomas corrected. “Really strong cables.”

Hamilton's mouth tightened, his expression doubtful. When the elevator _ding_ ed at their destination, he seemed to let out a breath of relief and just about ran out before the doors were even fully opened.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, when I'm bored, elevators scare me too.


	3. The Declaration of Awful Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Shit Goes Down  
> AKA the chapter that is the result of researching Thomas Jefferson and kind of hating him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is when you’d intended on writing a nice and fluffy fic and then realized that your intended characters actually might have done things that on certain levels are unjustifiably wrong and you don't know what to do.

It only figured that this Thomas Jefferson would be fucking rich, too, Alexander thought as he took in Jefferson's top-floor living space. Unused as he might have been to modern architectural conventions, Alexander wasn't stupid. He recognized wealthy when he saw it.

The walls were a white so smooth that Alexander doubted it was simple paint, accented by bright, formless paintings that, to him, seemed to be mere splashes of colors on canvases. A straight staircase made of dark polished wood led up to another floor, and a spacious kitchen is connected to an equally spacious living room that was illuminated by sunlight streaming through a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, and-- _holy shit, exactly how high up were they?_ Even from the entrance, Alexander was swept by the expanse of the view presented to him here, at this height to which he had never before even dreamt of ascending.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Jefferson asked pleasantly, popping his awe-inspired reverie.

And at that, his surroundings were momentarily forgotten; Alexander all but gushed, “ _Water please._ ”

He watched as Jefferson grabbed a mug from one of the suspended cabinets and held it under a sort of faucet, from which water spilled out when it sensed the presence of the mug.

Alexander drank the entire cup in one gulp, the cool liquid soothing over his dry throat like a salve. “Thank you,” he half-gasped as he handed the cup back to Jefferson.

“You must be thirsty,” his host mused.

Alexander returned a sheepish smile. Then, making a show of surveying the space, he commented, “Nice place you’ve got.”

“... Thanks,” Jefferson said. “It’s past noon. Are you hungry?”

Alexander shrugged. “I can eat. But could I have more water?”

Jefferson waved towards the faucet. “Help yourself.”

So as he sipped water while Jefferson prepared food, Alexander took the liberty to study Jefferson's place and everything in it--including Jefferson. Now that he wasn't facing imminent dehydration and had had time to process his predicament, a notion was starting to construct itself in his mind--

What kind of person brought a complete stranger back to his house? What were the chances that two men, both named Thomas Jefferson and spaced a few hundred years apart, looked almost exactly the same? Why hadn't he seemed surprised or confused when Alexander had confessed to not knowing his own age?

“How old are you?” Alexander blurted.

“Twenty-eight,” Jefferson answered without pause.

“What do you do?”

“Real estate business.”

Alexander hummed in acknowledgement of that response, then resumed his quasi-interrogation. “So how much did this place cost?”

“Around thirteen million? Though you could say I got a discount.”

Right. He had no grasp on how inflated modern currency was, but--” _Thirteen million?_ The _Revolutionary War debt_ was seventy-five million, and you're telling me your damn _house_ cost a sixth of that?”

Totally unfazed, Jefferson replied with an insouciant shrug, “But that was money from more than two hundred years ago. A dollar is worth much less now… I believe a dollar today is less than a twentieth of that in the 1790s?”

To which Alexander replied, pointedly, “I see you’ve thought about this.”

“I have.”

“Nevertheless this place still cost an insane amount of money.”

“Yeah.”

“Why am I _not_ surprised?” Alexander muttered quietly.

Jefferson either didn't hear it or chose to ignore it. Instead of making a reply, he carried two bowls over to the kitchen island before which Alexander was sitting.

“I hope you like mac and cheese,” he said, slipping into a chair on a side of the table adjacent to Alexander's.

Alexander stared at the bright blue bowl for a good, long while, eyes roaming the curvature of each piece of fucking _macaroni,_ covered in warm, golden _cheese_. He could hear the sounds where Jefferson's spoon made contact with the bowl. Alexander slowly scooped a spoonful of the noodles and delivered it to his mouth, chewed, swallowed. And he no longer had any doubt--

“Jefferson--you fucking bastard,” he said. At Jefferson's blank look, Alexander almost faltered, but he gritted his teeth and plowed on. “You knew who I was this entire time!”

Jefferson tilted his head in a perfect pretense of innocence, totally unapologetic. “How do you figure?”

Alexander stabbed his spoon into the bowl of macaroni and cheese in front of him (multiple times, to make his point). “ _This,_ ” he growled, glaring at Jefferson.

“It’s called mac and cheese--”

“I _know_ what fucking mac and cheese is!”

Still not completely abandoning his rouse, Jefferson had the galls to pretend to be _confused._ “Then what--”

“Stop with the act, already!” Alexander said. “I know you know _exactly_ who I am--now fucking _explain_ all this to me, will you?”

Their eyes met, and Alexander made sure his glare was coated in steel. Finally, Jefferson blinked and--was that a _smile_ playing at his lips? _Damn him._

“... So what about the mac and cheese?” Jefferson asked leisurely.

Alexander had to fight the urge to throw his bowl of food at the man--he reasoned that this newfound impulsiveness must be from being young again--and, very deliberately keeping his voice even, he said, “That time when Jefferson--the actual one, or the historical one or whatever-- _which is you,_ by the way, don't even bother denying it--so that time when you had Madison and me over for dinner to discuss that Assumption bill, you served us macaroni and cheese.”

Jefferson quirked an eyebrow, as if saying _so what?_

“... It tasted exactly like this,” Alexander finished.

Jefferson just looked at him without speaking for some very long minutes, and Alexander's toes curled inside those strange shoes as he tried not to squirm, tried to appear as confident as felt--or _should_ feel. (Because even though he, personally, had complete faith in his own sense of taste, he was well aware of the fact that his claim might seem absurd to others.)

Jefferson suddenly let out a soft laugh--more like a huff of breath, really. “I can't believe this, Hamilton. You’re telling me that you recognized me from my _mac and cheese?_ ”

“... Yes.” Alexander lifted his chin slightly, his jaw tight. He felt strangely defensive.

“And how did you know that my mac and cheese wasn't how _all_ mac and cheese tasted like?”

“I _have_ tried other mac and cheese dishes, you know,” Alexander said, indignant. “I know you’re going to find it hard to believe, but you weren't the only person who knew how to make mac and cheese.”

Jefferson had the audacity to look _proud._ “So my mac and cheese made an impression?”

“Yeah, if you meant an _atrocious_ impression, then sure,” Alexander retorted. “Who adds fucking _bourbon_ to mac and cheese? You’re butchering everyone's taste buds.”

Jefferson idly shoved some macaroni into his mouth and chewed. “I rather think the richness of bourbon complements the tangy flavor of mac and cheese,” he drawled.

“Well, that's because your taste buds have already been _damaged beyond repair,_ ” Alexander shot back.

“Mmhm,” Jefferson hummed. “Well, I like it this way,” he said as he continued to eat.

Alexander huffed out a sigh, drawing a conclusion to the discussion while outwardly conveying his exasperation. Resigned, he took a bite of the mac and cheese--and to be honest, it didn't taste _super_ awful--the flavor was almost _soothing,_ even if it made his tongue feel heavy in his mouth. Not that he would ever admit that out loud, to Jefferson.

“... But really,” Alexander said after a while. “Why are you here? Why am _I?_ Why are we _younger?_ \--fuck, this feels so _strange_ \--How long have you been here? Are there any others like… us? And why did you fucking pretend to not know me, you bastard? Also, why were you--”

“ _Slow down,_ Hamilton,” Jefferson cut in, and then muttered, under his breath, “Still so _talkative._ ”

“-- _Well?_ ” Alexander demanded, ignoring the remark.

“First, I don't know why I’m here or why you're here. Trust me, it was very much a surprise when I looked up and saw you, dressed in _rags_ ”--Jefferson made a face in Alexander's general direction--”and looking for all the world as if you’d been lurking in the streets for an entire _week_ \--”

Alexander interrupted with a shrug. “Don't know. I might’ve been.”

Jefferson scowled. “Right, well. I didn't ask you, did I? Anyway. I don't know why we’re younger, but I’ve found that it isn't so bad--”

“So how old were you when you died? Well, not died, since you’re _here,_ but you know what I mean.”

Jefferson's scowl deepened. “Eighty-three, and _will you stop interrupting?_ ”

Alexander all but ignored his words. “Damn, you’re _old,_ ” he said. “But it doesn't feel like it at all, right? Isn't it so strange being young again?”

Jefferson let out a long-suffering sigh. “I’ve gotten more or less used to it because-- _as I was saying before you butted in_ \--I’ve been here for around three years. As for whether there are any others: yes, there are others. I know Washington is here. I got a postcard from him from Japan two years ago out of the blue. Back then I hadn't gotten this place yet; I lived in Brooklyn. Anyway, he said he was traveling the world--how he got word of me, I’ve no idea--but I haven't met him in person, though we do occasionally communicate by email. Lafayette popped by for a visit not long after I got this penthouse… around five months ago? He’s now down in Los Angeles--”

“Los Angeles?” Alexander echoed. He was going to have to catch up on some geography, he thought. And terminology--what the hell was an _email?_ And international relations, too, because the only thing he knew about Japan was that it was in East Asia.

Jefferson leveled a cross look at him but seemed to have given up on trying to shut him up. “It’s in California,” he said. “Hollywood is in Los Angeles.” At Alexander's blank look, he elaborated--“Hollywood’s the focal point of the US film industry.”

“Right,” Alexander said. “Okay.” He mentally ticked off the items on his checklist that Jefferson had answered while adding items to his list of things to research later. “Why did you pretend to not know who I was?”

Jefferson seemed to hesitate slightly before he answered. “I wanted to see what would happen.”

“What did you _expect_ to happen?”

Jefferson shrugged. “I don't know, but we didn’t exactly part on the best terms, did we?”

“What do you mean we didn't? I was literally _for you_ becoming president!”

“Yeah, right. That was only because the alternative was _Aaron Burr._ ”

“So? It’s not _my_ fault that your political views were absolute rubbish.”

“They were _not,_ ” Jefferson protested hotly. “ _You_ wanted to undermine our very nation's founding principles!”

At that, Alexander couldn't help it--he effectively threw his spoon into his bowl so hard that it bounced back out and landed, quivering, on the once-pristine kitchen island, which was now marred with spots of mac and cheese. Because--the sheer _hypocrisy!_ Alexander wasn't going to pretend to be a saint himself. He’d demoted his own principles for the sake of his ambitions--his selfishness, really, at many levels--on more than a few occasions, but Jefferson? The man had written _the fucking Declaration of Independence._ He’d _waxed poetry_ about how “all men were created equal,” about their _certain unalienable Rights_ with a fucking capitalized ‘R,’ and yet, in the most spurious, duplicitous demonstration of two-faced insincerity, it’d been _him_ who’d turned his back on this nation's ideals.

Alexander had been so relieved at seeing a familiar face in this decidedly unfamiliar world that he had momentarily set aside any prejudices and contempt he’d once harbored towards this man. Unconsciously, he had tossed thoughts of the awful things Jefferson had done to the back of his mind, but--

“If we’re speaking of subverting America’s founding principles,” Alexander spat out, snickering bitterly, “we ought to talk about _you_ and your _Monticello_ and your _slaves._ Equality? Yeah, right. You’re so self-contradictory that it makes me _sick,_ Jefferson.”

Jefferson was strangely silent, which only served to further incense Alexander. It was just like how he’d never denied, nor confirmed, nor otherwise said anything on the topic of his appalling affair with Sally Hemings (appalling, not in the interracial aspect of it, of course, but in the master-slave dynamic of it).

“What?” he taunted, when Jefferson averted his gaze and he knew he’d struck a nerve. “You’re not going to _say_ anything? Just like how you didn't say anything about that vile, abominable, profligate, licentious relationship you _forced upon_ that slave wo--”

“Shut _up,_ Hamilton,” Jefferson broke in with a snarl. “I’m perfectly aware of what I’ve done and I don't need you to be a fucking _thesaurus_ about it.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up! What you did--it was _deplorable_ and _despicable_ and _wrong_ and I bet my _life_ that _you knew it_ and _yet_ \--and yet you _kept at it_ for--how long? Ten years? Twenty?” At Jefferson's damning reticence, a suspicion dawned on Alexander. “Oh god, you did it until you _died,_ didn't you?” Alexander did a quick mental calculation. “That’s like _four decades,_ Jefferson! Have you no fucking _shame?_ She was like, what, _thirty years younger than you!_ She could've been your _daughter!_ ”

Alexander stared hard at Jefferson. The whiteness of Jefferson's knuckles as his grip on his spoon tightened. The hardness of his jaw, tense, as if he was gritting his teeth in pain. The way he held his frame--stiff, hunched, hurt. Well, Alexander thought, he _deserved_ to feel bad, to feel _terrible,_ to feel suffocated by guilt and regret and a _shitload_ of self-loathing.

Suddenly, Jefferson stood up, his movement so swift that the chair behind him teetered, dangerously close to tilting backwards and falling. “Tell me something I _don't_ already know, Hamilton,” he said quietly, voice terse, sounding as if caught in his throat. Jefferson turned, grabbed his jacket, and without another word, strode out the door of the--what did he call it? Right, the _penthouse_ \--all the while avoiding Alexander's eyes.

Alone in the house of his former nemesis (who might as well have been a rapist, he thought meanly), Alexander took another bite of the mac and cheese before him. It was cold, now.

Alexander finished it anyway.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Jefferson and Hamilton didn't meet until like 1790, when Jefferson was 47 and Hamilton was thirty-something. But for the sake of Plot, let’s just say Jefferson knew Hamilton prior to 30 years old. And like, even though Hamilton would've only been in his teens when Jefferson was 30, pretend the numbers all make sense, yeah?
> 
> 2\. The Assumption bill: Compromise of 1790, AKA The Room Where It Happens.
> 
> 3\. I actually don't know the exact number of the Revolutionary War debt, because while various sources online told me it was around $75 million, a book I found in the store at the Independence Visitor Center in Philadelphia had $79 million as the number. ( _Jefferson and Hamilton: The Rivalry That Forged a Nation_ by John Ferling)
> 
> 4\. The relationship between Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings is a conjecture--albeit one accepted by many--and is still debated. Honestly, this bothered me so much while researching, and it’s a major reason why I dislike/dread studying history: even the claims regarded as facts, the books marketed as nonfiction, are not necessarily the truth. I don't like not knowing for certain (I like being right lol), and history is objectively subjective and built perspective by perspective, contradictions piled one upon another, and,
> 
> _Why is time travel not a thing._


	4. Dirty Stairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thomas Walks Down Memory Lane  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're all made of memories.

The chill of early winter air wrapped its fingers around Thomas, its claws poised to sink into his skin. He walked the streets of NYC on brittle footsteps, shaken by the confrontation he’d just had with Hamilton.

When he had first opened his eyes in the rattling car of a subway train, Thomas hadn't known anything except his own first name. He’d been confused, and not a little terrified. When he’d stumbled off the train with a wave of passengers and followed them to the exits and up the dirty stairs characteristic of NYC subway entrances; when he’d emerged aboveground into a night brightly marred by glaring, unnatural colors; when he’d gotten directed to the nearest police station for being unfathomably _lost_ by a kindly stranger; when he’d confessed truthfully that _no, he’s not lying, he has no money, he knows no one, he doesn't know the date, he’s never heard of a cell phone,_ and been met with disbelieving scrutinization; when he’d been poked at and prodded, searched and questioned--Thomas had expended as much effort as he’d been able to dredge up to pretend that he hadn't been incredibly overwhelmed by all of it.

 _My name is Thomas,_ he’d told them, repeatedly, because they kept asking. It’d been the only thing he could have told them, in addition to _I don't know where my family is, I don't know who they are._

The interrogation had stopped when he’d abruptly hunched over into himself, his fingers digging into his hair, pressing into his throbbing skull. Surprised by his sudden display of painful discomfort, they’d sent him to the hospital, where he’d been given painkillers so strong that they put him right under. All the while--from the moment the pain had started and all throughout his drug-induced sleep--Thomas had been assaulted with memories that at first were incomprehensible snippets but later became a jigsaw narrative.

 _Books. A woman--his mother--he has a mother?--A judge. Court. He’s a lawyer and he’s arguing for something--A big house. Plantation. This is his house, here are his books, these are his slaves--A woman who makes him feel warm, whose laughter tugs at the corners of his lips. Whose fingers dance upon black and white keys to complement the tones of a violin--his violin--Martha--He has a_ wife, _and a_ daughter, _and_ he has a family.

_Had._

He was Thomas Jefferson, he’d learned, the knowledge forced, roughly, into his brain with each wave of pain. Later, he would come to realize that these incomplete snippets of memories went up to no later than approximately the first twenty years of Thomas Jefferson's life, and were by no means an exhaustive collection.

But even as addled as he’d been, Thomas had had the foresight to continue to pretend, and before long they’d come out with a diagnosis that satisfied themselves: transient global amnesia, a complete but temporary loss of memory. Yet when, after a week of detainment, Thomas remained for all appearances as lost as he’d first been, they’d reluctantly changed their assessment to total amnesia (a diagnosis that wasn't quite as satisfying as the first one).

Thomas had let himself be detained-- _it’s free food and shelter,_ he’d reasoned. When finally they’d lost interest and run out of reason to keep him, they’d allowed him to go with intensive instructions on applying for citizenship, or at least residency. Thomas had been beyond fortunate--they’d even helped him enroll in a government-sponsored job training program.

From there on, Thomas had worked relentlessly: a bartender, a salesperson, a waiter--he tried every job he could possibly get his hands on, took every opportunity he stumbled upon to familiarize himself with the ropes and pulleys of this brand new world. His numerous interactions with the numerous people he’d encountered had presented him with a set of societal values starkly different from the views and prejudices shoved into him from those memories, and when, finally living a life with some semblance of stability, Thomas had sat down and thoroughly researched himself--library, bookstore, internet--he’d been beyond disturbed.

He’d done some great things, apparently, but it was also undeniable that he'd done some awful things, and it wasn't a good feeling at all, being a major hypocrite. (It felt especially terrible after the way Alexander had said it--with contempt and sincere _disgust_ and a thick layer of raw accusation.)

Thomas wished he wouldn't remember any more of those memories, but of course the universe did not feel inclined to progress according to his wishes--and more of them returned, chunk by chunk, each time without any warning except for the nervous mental jitters prior to the onset of a headache.

This was how the memories worked for Washington and Lafayette--in pieces and increments, although their headaches weren't as bad, the way they described it (he’d asked them, in emails). Thomas should have known, though, that Alexander Hamilton’s mind would be different, brilliant as it had been and probably would always be. Thomas’s own recollection was currently up to thirty years old, but from how he’d seen Hamilton act, the man had no such lapses in his memories--he was perfectly aware of who he’d been: the _entirety_ of who he had been.

\---

When Thomas returned to his penthouse, he was greeted by the sight of Hamilton lounging on his couch with an open book before him; arranged haphazardly on the coffee table before the couch was a stack of other books--some of which were from Thomas’s own bookshelves. An empty carton of vanilla ice cream had been set aside on the table as well, and as wary as he was, Thomas couldn't help but fight a smile at the memory of a bygone time, Hamilton at his dining table, gleeful at the sight of the ice cream puffs (back then a novelty) that were served. But the detail that contributed most to the strangeness of the sight in front of him right now--

“Hamilton, are you wearing my clothes?” Thomas asked.

Hamilton spared him a disinterested glance and barely shrugged a shoulder. “I don't know, are they yours? I wanted to take a bath and found them in one of the drawers in one of the rooms. Modern bathrooms are simply _miraculous._ ”

Thomas sighed, removed his jacket, and strode towards his room, where he found his meticulously organized closet all but ransacked.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See my notes on the Jefferson-Hemings controversy in the next chapter.


	5. Some Facts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My (pretty brief) notes on the Issue at Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I personally found this entire topic as frustrating as it is interesting, so venture into it at your own risk, but feel free to skip this if you don't really care.

**First things first:** These notes are by no means comprehensive, and the best thing to do is to do your own research and draw your own conclusions. Be mindful, though, to look at multiple points of view. (I really hate not knowing things.)

**Sources for these notes (+ my comments on them):**

  * [Report of the Research Committee on Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings](https://www.monticello.org/site/plantation-and-slavery/report-research-committee-thomas-jefferson-and-sally-hemings) (January 2000)--the report itself holds that Thomas Jefferson fathered at least one of Sally Hemings's children, but the [Minority Report](https://www.monticello.org/site/plantation-and-slavery/minority-report-monticello-research-committee-thomas-jefferson-and-sally), the [Response to the Minority Report](https://www.monticello.org/site/plantation-and-slavery/response-to-minority-report), and the [Reply to the "Response to the Minority Report"](https://www.monticello.org/site/plantation-and-slavery/reply-to-response-to-minority-report) point out interesting viewpoints as well. Also of note is the section titled [Opinions of Scientists Consulted](https://www.monticello.org/site/plantation-and-slavery/appendix-b-opinions-scientists-consulted).
  * [The Case of Jefferson and Hemings](http://www.claremont.org/crb/basicpage/the-case-of-jefferson-and-hemings/) (2010)--argues that TJ did  _not_ father any of Hemings's children; points out inconsistencies/mistakes in Annette Gordon-Reed's award-winning book, [The Hemingses of Monticello: An American Family](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3364462-the-hemingses-of-monticello) (2008), which asserts that TJ fathered  _all_ of Hemings's children. (I'm not a history person, so I've no idea how accurate the book or the article is.)
  * [Jefferson-Hemings Revisited](https://www.chronicle.com/blogs/innovations/jefferson-hemings-revisited/30273) (2011)---about how a book, [The Jefferson-Hemings Controversy: Report of the Scholars Commission](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6129468.The_Jefferson_Hemings_Controversy) _,_ has once again cast doubt on the notion that TJ fathered Hemings's child(ren). "...  _it is our unanimous view that the allegation is by no means proven; and we find it regrettable that public confusion about the 1998 DNA testing and other evidence has misled many people into believing that the issue is closed. With the exception of one member... our individual conclusions range from serious skepticisms about the charge to a conviction that it is almost certainly untrue."_
  * [Monticello opens new exhibit for Sally Hemings](https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/16/us/sally-hemings-exhibit-monticello.html) (2018)--so plenty of people accept as truth that TJ fathered Sally Hemings's child(ren).
  * (More for interest than for research) ['She Was Part of This Family': Jefferson Descendants Reflect on Sally Hemings Exhibit](https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/16/us/jefferson-sally-hemings-descendants.html) (2018)
  * [Coard: President Thomas Jefferson: A Pedophile Rapist](http://www.phillytrib.com/commentary/coard-president-thomas-jefferson-a-pedophile-rapist/article_f841b673-50ac-5510-8330-20d3bac6f974.html) (2018)--after reading (skimming through) this, my first comment was, "Well, this guy certainly hates TJ." I personally felt that his aggressive tone and assuming language undermined his argument. His article seems to me more like a diatribe--unflinchingly asserting that TJ was a rapist, which, of course, is a possibility (through modern lenses), but a statement that I feel is anachronistic and doesn't consider in full the historical and social context. In addition, his use of historical evidence seems to rely heavily on oversimplification.
  * [The Washington Post Slanders Thomas Jefferson Over Slave Children](http://www.theamericanconservative.com/articles/the-washington-post-slanders-thomas-jefferson/) (2018)--this one argues against the pro Jefferson paternity view. A conservative publication.
  * [The Thomas Jefferson Foundation Now Claims He Fathered Six Children with Sally Hemings](https://historynewsnetwork.org/article/169304) (2018)--argues against the Sally Hemings Exhibit at Monticello and that the exhibit isn't based on any new evidence, just the same old stuff (the DNA tests, Madison Hemings's testimony, and circumstantial evidence). This one's from someone who identifies as liberal: "The issue is that if you disagree with their (TJF's) official position on the liaison... you run the risk of being dubbed 'racist,' which is the kiss of death in liberal academic circles. I am a liberal, but I am interested in truth, not politics... [It is important to know that] Jefferson may have had a relationship with Hemings. Yet we wish to know that as a result of open debate on both sides of the issue..." The writer has also written to argue [why Madison Hemings's testimony may have been unreliable](https://historynewsnetwork.org/article/160131).



 

JEFFERSON-HEMINGS CONTROVERSY--NOTES: 

_**Viewpoints/Possibilities:** _

**1\. Thomas Jefferson did _not_ father any of Sally Hemings's children.**

  * Although DNA testing provides evidence that _a_ Jefferson fathered Eston Hemings (Sally Hemings’s youngest son), the nature of the test cannot conclude _which_ Jefferson.
  * (Randolph Jefferson, Thomas’s younger brother, is an often-cited possibility for holders of this view.)
  * Jefferson himself denied the allegations.
  * According to the results of the DNA test, Thomas Woodson, Sally Hemings’s first son, does _not_ seem to have been fathered by a Jefferson.
    * This is the son of Sally Hemings that was allegedly conceived in Paris in 1789/1790.
    * There is no indication in Jefferson's records of a child born to Hemings before 1795, and there are no known documents to support that Thomas Woodson was Hemings's first child.
    * If Thomas Woodson  _had_ been found to be descended from a Jefferson, it would have most certainly been Thomas Jefferson (the only Jefferson in Paris at the time).
    * But he was not.
  * Interview with 70-year-old Madison Hemings:
    * Transcript is possibly unreliable: Madison uses phrases such as “compunctions of conscience,” drops words like "viz" and "enciente" into his account--which, by strange coincidence, closely parallels Callender's charges.
    * Madison is quoted as claiming that he was named by Dolley Madison, who supposedly left her busy schedule as President Jefferson's hostess to make the trip to Monticello in the dead of winter just to be present at his birth.
    * He reputedly makes the statement that Jefferson, who was famous as an amateur botanist, had "little taste in agricultural pursuits."
  * At the time of Eston Hemings’s conception, Thomas Jefferson would have been 64 years old--suffering “rheumatoid arthritis, sciatica, osteoarthritis, or some combination of these ailments.”
    * Was he capable of fathering Eston? “Conception occurred during the period in which Jefferson was known to be experiencing migraines that he described as ‘violent’ and ‘blinding.’”
    * <http://www.claremont.org/crb/basicpage/the-case-of-jefferson-and-hemings/>



**2\. Thomas Jefferson fathered at least 1, if not all, of Sally Hemings's children.**

  * The DNA testing--Eston Hemings was descended from a Jefferson.
  * Sally Hemings was Martha Jefferson's half-sister, and they might have looked alike.
  * According to contemporary accounts, some of Sally Hemings's children strongly resembled Thomas Jefferson.
  * **Thomas Jefferson freed all of Sally Hemings's children:** Beverly and Harriet were allowed to leave Monticello in 1822; Madison and Eston were released in Jefferson's 1826 will. Jefferson gave freedom to no other nuclear slave family.
  * Circumstantial evidence:
    * According to monticello.org (<https://www.monticello.org/site/plantation-and-slavery/thomas-jefferson-and-sally-hemings-brief-account>), “Thomas Jefferson was at Monticello at the likely conception times of Sally Hemings's six known children.
    * There are no records suggesting that she was elsewhere at these times, or records of any births at times that would exclude Jefferson paternity.”
  * On the possibility that a Jefferson other than TJ fathered Sally Hemings's child(ren):  
<https://www.monticello.org/site/plantation-and-slavery/v-assessment-possible-paternity-other-jeffersons>
  * This is the simplest explanation.


    1. Sally Hemings fathered Thomas Jefferson's child because as a slave she could not refuse the demands of her master.
    2. Sally Hemings and Thomas Jefferson had some sort of relationship that went beyond simply master-slave.



 

The problem I have with the "TJ fathered child(ren) with Sally Hemings" viewpoint is that it relies on nonspecific evidence (DNA testing whose results merely proves that  _a_ Jefferson fathered Eston Hemings, Sally's youngest son) and circumstantial evidence.

The problem I have with the "TJ fathered none of Sally Hemings's children" viewpoint is the fact that TJ freed all of Sally Hemings's children--why would he do that? Why did his daughter free Sally Hemings?

I really wish time travel were a thing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think?


	6. One-Way Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alexander Learns About Life

Neither of them brought up the argument, and Alexander was content (at least for now) to let it slide. Jefferson was, after all, the only non-stranger to him here. Plus, the youth of Jefferson's appearance made it easier to pretend that all sorts of things didn't really happen.

“This historian is saying that my actions led to the demise of my own political party,” Alexander said out loud, not particularly caring whether Jefferson was listening.

“In a way, that historian's not wrong,” came Jefferson's mild reply.

An undignified _hmph_ was Alexander’s response.

\---

A few hours of quiet in which Thomas responded to his emails and reviewed documents for work, then suddenly--

“ _Why did we get involved in the fucking war?_ ” Hamilton screeched, startling him.

“Huh?”

“The Vietnam War,” Hamilton clarified. He pronounced _Vietnam_ slowly, as if testing out the unfamiliar placename.

“Oh, that.” Thomas shrugged. “Plenty of pretty weird things have happened since we died.”

\---

“Hey Jefferson,” Alexander called as he shut the book in his hands (it was the third book he’d finished that day).

“Right, about that--I go by Thomas Jensen now, so call me either Thomas or Jensen.”

Alexander wrinkled his face in annoyance. “Okay, whatever. _Thomas,_ ” he said.

“What?”

“All these books have citations that mention some sort of archives. Can _I_ access them?”

“Of _course_ you read the fucking bibliography, Hamilton.”

“Speaking of which, I’m going to just go by Alexander too.”

“Okay. Well, _Alexander,_ you can, in fact, look at those archives. Most of them, anyway. They’re online.”

“On-line? ... What line?”

Jeffer-- _Thomas_ burst out laughing at that. “Come over here, Alexander. I’ll introduce you to the internet. You’re going to love it.”

\---

Thomas was right. The internet was amazing; it was even more marvelous than modern bathrooms, and Alexander had been genuine when he’d said that those were miracles.

It was slightly unsettling to know that his writings--public and personal--were out there for all who were interested to read, that these writings had been analyzed and dissected, his every word guessed at and speculated. Alexander wondered briefly what they'd made of his last few letters--what Eliza and his children had made of those last words.

Perhaps it was because he was once again young, with a body that had not yet known Elizabeth Schuyler's warmth and the gentleness of her touch--but Alexander felt quite removed from all the proceedings of his previous lifetime. He could distantly remember having a family and being happy, yet he was aware that he was feeling less yearning than he ought to be. Almost certainly these people--his wife, his family, his friends--were all dead, Alexander realized, processing the notion with a melancholic detachment.

But he shook away those thoughts and devoted his attention to the amazing device before him (Thomas’s old _laptop,_ as he’d called it). It was exhilarating to have so much information beneath his fingertips, and Alexander wasn't going to waste any time.

\---

“How dare this--this _dictionary!_ ” came Alexander's sudden outcry.

“What is it?” Thomas replied distractedly, eyes scanning the details of a prospective client.

“It’s defining me as a ‘bastard’ and the ‘son of a whore!’ And--and I’m a _rapper?_ What do I rap--doors?”

“... What is that dictionary called?”

“It says ‘Urban Dictionary’ at the top left corner.”

(Why was Thomas not surprised?) He quickly read through the last few lines of the document he was on and looked up. “Well,” he said. “First, that’s not a credible site--like _at all._ I don't even know how you got there. And second, congratulations, you’ve been made into a musical.”

“A musical?”

“Kind of like a ballad-opera. Except your musical has a lot of rap, which, before you ask, is basically rhythmic speech.”

“... Right. And how is that any excuse for how they’ve defined my name?”

“Those are the first lines of said musical, about you,” Thomas explained. He tapped a few keys on his keyboard, clicked Enter, and swiveled his laptop screen towards Alexander. He watched as the man’s brows furrowed in a growing amalgamation of thoughts and emotions: indignation, confusion, irritation--and, a little unexpectedly--amusement.

“... You said ‘rap’ is rhythmic speech?” Alexander finally said.

“Yes,” Thomas affirmed.

“How is any of this rhythmic? The syllable counts are irregular, and the rhyme is all over the place!”

“Well, see, you need to actually _listen_ to it…”

And that was how Thomas ended up having to put up with the blaring of the entirety of the two-hour-plus _Hamilton_ soundtrack (because of course Alexander insisted on blasting it out loud-- _very_ loud). This was, unsurprisingly, accompanied by Alexander's many (often cranky) commentaries, too frequent to be intermittent.

\---

“You need an ID,” Thomas said the next day.

They’d had some French cuisine takeout for dinner (honestly, Alexander should have expected it), after which Thomas had directed Alexander to an empty bedroom and told him, firmly, “Sleep.” _As if it’s that easy,_ Alexander had thought snarkily, and then he’d spent the first few hours of the night thinking, thinking, and _thinking._ He thought about cars and neon yellow and magically heated rooms, about elevators and musicals ( _his_ musical) and laptops. He thought about Jefferson, then about Thomas, combined them and then pulled them apart, having arrived at no useful answers. Eliza and the children graced his mind, too, but they didn't stay long and Alexander didn't mind; he’d searched them up earlier, and they’d seemed, mostly, to have led satisfactory lives.

Now, over breakfast of toast and hot chocolate, they were talking about Alexander's relatively near future.

“An ID?”

“Identity document. You need an identity to do most things nowadays, and plus if you don't have one, you might be considered illegal. It would be even more complicated in your case since you’re not a citizen of any other country, like how I was when I first found myself here.”

“So what do I need to do?” Alexander asked promptly. Part of him was actually excited to sort out a life here. And he’d rather not remain completely dependent on Thomas.

\---

“Fuck, ow--Jeffers-- _Thomas!_ ”

“ _What?_ ”

“How do you shave with this thing?”

A heavy sigh. “Wait a sec.” Footsteps. “Give it to me.”

Running water. “What are you putting on me?”

“Shaving cream. Stop talking and be still.”

“... It tickles.”

“Stop _moving._ ”

“Right. Fine.”

\---

After two weeks and three days of reading history--which was, to Alexander, more like the future--and browsing the internet for general knowledge, Alexander was mostly confident that he had gotten the gist of modern life, and Thomas handed him a United States passport. (How he had managed to procure such a document, Alexander didn't ask, nor did he particularly want to know--it was most definitely through less-than-legal means, though. That wealthy people usually had shortcuts to get what they want was a fact that hadn't changed.)

“Twenty-four-year-old Alexander Hayden, welcome to the United States,” Thomas said, his tone jokingly grand.

Alexander picked up the navy-blue booklet and flipping through it, awash with a sense of awe at the precise quality of the print and the intricacy of the organization of information. The same sense of almost-reverent wonder flowed through him every time he opened a book or did an image search on the laptop which Thomas had all but gifted to him. It was a strange feeling that he’d been experiencing more often than not these days, like when his forays into the more modern segments of history would lead him to audio recordings instead of transcriptions and videos instead of descriptions, or when he would sometimes stand before the floor-to-ceiling windows in Thomas's penthouse and be treated to the landscape of a city far taller, denser, and more advanced than he’d had the creativity to ever imagine.

“So what can I do now?” he asked.

Thomas shrugged. “Well, now that you’ve got an identity--lots of things. Work, travel, drive--”

“ _Brilliant._ ”

\---

“The heck are you doing? Alexander!”

“Driving, _duh._ ”

Thomas had known that agreeing to let Alexander learn how to drive was not the best idea, but he hadn't expected it to be this _terrifying._

“You’re going over the speed limit!” Thomas pointed out, more than a little panicked.

“Not by that much,” was Alexander's calmly delivered reply.

“You call _twenty miles per hour_ over the speed limit _‘not that much?_ ’”

“It’s not _that_ much…”

“ _Hamilton!_ ”

“Fine,” Alexander muttered as he eased up on the gas pedal with excruciating slowness.

“This is a _one-way street!_ ”

“Well, no one told me _which way it was!_ ”

“You’re supposed to figure it out by _paying attention to the signs_ and _to other people._ ”

Thomas clutched tight onto his seatbelt with one hand while the other gesticulated about, trying to curb the extent of peril presented by Alexander's driving--

“ _Watch out!_ Oh my god what the _fuck--you’re on a collision course with that car!_ ”

“I can fucking _see_ that!” Alexander snapped, his cool slipping. “Hold on. _Tightly._ ”

“Keep right keep _right keep right kee--mmph!_ ”

Thomas slammed backwards into his seat as Alexander swiveled the car and pulled it to a screeching stop, his breath forced out of him in one fell swoop. For a moment both of them simply sat in their seats, panting, feeling the adrenaline of danger shoot through their veins. Thomas decidedly did not like the feeling, but judging by the slightly maniacal gleam in his companion-slash-driver’s eyes and the mild flush in his cheeks, Alexander had probably enjoyed it a little too much.

... Who was he kidding? The man had probably loved _every second_ of it.

Oh, _hell._

“ _Fuck--_ did you want to _die,_ Alexander?” Thomas demanded.

“Technically, I _am_ supposed to be dead,” Alexander replied indifferently.

“You could’ve killed _other people!_ ”

This, at last, gave Alexander pause. “Well--”

“ _You_ listen,” Thomas snarled, breaking him off. “If you want to drive, _you follow the damn rules._ You have a _responsibility_ on the road, Alexander. Are you amazed how fast modern automobiles can move? I’m sure you’ll be delighted to know how easily they can _kill,_ too.”

“...  _Fine,_ ” Alexander finally mumbled in concession, sounding subdued-- _certainly a rare occurrence,_ Thomas thought, caught between frustration and amusement.

“Also--fuck you, Hamilton.”

“What now?”

“You’ve wrecked my car.”

“... That’s an exaggeration.”

“No it isn't.”

“Fuck you, Jefferson.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. A chapter of fluff.


	7. The Sky Is Already Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Christmas

Christmas rolled around without much fanfare. Neither Thomas nor Alexander had prepared presents, and up here, so high above the rest of the city in the penthouse, Thomas saw no point in putting up decorations.

Alexander spent the day on the laptop, tapping away with characteristic urgency and downing too many cups of coffee to have been healthy. Thomas attempted to do some work but eventually gave up, too frequently distracted by Alexander’s presence and his movements from the kitchen to his room.

After a day of unproductivity, at five, Thomas marched unannounced into Alexander’s room.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Not looking up, Alexander replied with a disinterested, “Where?”

“Out.”

“Why?”

“It’s Christmas.”

“So?”

“You should see how Christmas is celebrated these days.”

“Sorry, not really interested.”

Thomas walked over and closed the laptop lid. “I didn’t ask.”

“I was in the middle of something!”

Thomas ignored Alexander’s protests. “Get ready. You’ve got ten minutes.”

\---

The sky was already dark by the time they stepped out, and the cold was biting. Although it wasn’t snowing, the wind whipped at their cheeks and Alexander followed Thomas’s example, pulling up the hood of his coat, his ears grateful for the added layer of insulation.

With his car currently off to be repaired, Thomas led Alexander to a subway entrance--a staircase leading into the ground, guarded by two lampposts bearing greenish spherical lights. Stepping onto the platform, Alexander’s assessment was that it wasn’t particularly well-kept or clean; he said as much, and Thomas replied with a shrug, as if to say, _It is the way it is._

They went to a place called Rockefeller Center, and Alexander was slightly awed by the amount of people there despite the chill in the air and the lateness of the hour. The view, too, made Alexander’s eyes widen--because how did they get so many lights strung together? And the tree was so _big_ (the buildings were even taller, and they were still amazing to Alexander, despite his living in a penthouse). And there were so many _colors_ and _flags_ and the world seemed to Alexander to have suddenly become both larger and smaller.

He should be grateful for having been given the chance to see this, he thought. _Because this--right now, right here? This is magnificence that makes you feel insignificant but also fucking lucky to have been part of it, however small a part._

On the way back, they braved the cold for a while, traversing the sidewalks on frozen toes and--it was mostly Alexander--fawning over window displays, not caring for a rare moment that the fantastical depictions of fairies and clockwork and wizardry had no place in what he considered the actual world.

When milky snowflakes began drifting down over and around them, they headed to the nearest subway station entrance--and how did Thomas seem to know all the entrances of every station?

Still giddy from the festive atmosphere of the city, Alexander didn’t even really mind that much when Thomas informed him that the dark gray stains peppering the ground were pieces of gum.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When reality can be magical


	8. Naproxen + Sumatriptan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thomas Breaks Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Daily Dose of Random Facts:**  
>  Naproxen + Sumatriptan =  
>  **Treximet:** helps relieve headache, pain, and other migraine symptoms (including nausea, vomiting, sensitivity to light/sound).  
>  **Ingredients:**  
>  _Naproxen_ is known as a nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drug (NSAID) used to relieve pain.  
>  _Sumatriptan_ belongs to a class of drugs called triptans. It affects a certain natural substance (serotonin) that causes narrowing of blood vessels in the brain. It may also relieve pain by affecting certain nerves in the brain.

New Year’s Day: Alexander woke to the violent, sparkling noise of glass shattering, followed by a string of curses in a strained voice.

Groggily, he sat up, pushed himself off the bed, already missing the blissfully refined smoothness of the pillows and covers. A glance to the clock on elegant white walls told him it was half past noon. Alexander had gone to sleep at four, preoccupied with the thirty or so tabs he’d opened on the Cold War, which in turn had led to even more tabs.

Alexander padded upon sluggish footsteps downstairs into the living room, then chased the sound of hissed mutterings into the adjacent kitchen. He found Thomas half-leaning on the counter, knuckles white, smithereens of a broken plate dusting the floor around his feet, as if he had intended to reach down and clean up the mess but for some reason could not. Indeed--Thomas’s eyes were closed, tightly, and his lips were parted with shaky breaths.

“Uh, are you all right?” Alexander ventured.

“ _No--_ yes,” came the grunted response, followed by a groaned _fuck._

“What’s up with you?” Alexander asked.

Thomas waved an unsteady hand and, voice feeble--“It’s just a headache.”

His understatement was vitiated when, attempting to settle into one of the chairs around the kitchen island (at least, Alexander assumed that this was what he was doing), Thomas seemed to have miscalculated and instead plopped violently down onto the floor, landing on his butt. For a moment, his fingertips had tightened futilely on the edge of the counter in a semi-successful effort to mitigate his fall.

“What the fuck? This isn’t ‘just a headache,’” Alexander said, making his way over to the fallen man.

It was a bit unsettling when Thomas remained wordless and allowed himself to be propped up and moved to the couch in the living room, too deep in discomfort to refuse the assistance. Thomas’s hands were bleeding, Alexander noticed as he set the man down, helping him into a reclining position on the cushions.

“You have glass embedded in your hands,” Alexander commented.

Thomas made no reply; the space between his brows wrinkled and his lips whitened in pain.

“... What can I do?” Alexander asked. “To help.”

“Pain meds,” Thomas rasped, lips barely moving. “In the storage closet. Across from my room.”

“Right. Okay.” Alexander hurried upstairs and found the closet Thomas had been referring to. Yanking it open, Alexander couldn't help but give a pause at the sight that greeted him. It wasn't a big space by any means, but it was… well stocked. Thomas had placed a number of mini drawers (made of a material Alexander had now learned was plastic), and a label adorned almost every container.

 _Pretty self-explanatory,_ Alexander thought. But then his eyes scanned the set of drawers that Thomas had labeled “Pain Relief,” and he decided to take back his initial assessment, because how was he supposed to know what any of these nonsense words were? He took in the labels on one set of drawers: Tylenol (acetaminophen), Advil (ibuprofen), Aleve (naproxen), Treximet (naproxen + sumatriptan). How was he supposed to choose if he had no idea what each of the substances even _did?_ Next set of drawers: _Narcotics_ \--codeine, oxycodone…

Alexander's consternation was further compounded by the sounds Thomas was making--loud enough that he could hear them from here. Those were cries of helpless pain, Alexander thought, remembering faintly, inopportunely, the nature of Eliza’s moans when giving birth to their children. As sure as Alexander was that childbirth was far more painful than whatever it was that Thomas was currently experiencing--and he was even more certain that a comparison between _Thomas Jefferson_ and his wife was way less than appropriate--the agonized noises being filtered through his eardrums made Alexander's fingers stutter as they skimmed in a panicked rhythm over the contents of the closet.

Alexander clenched his jaws and grabbed a few tablets from one of the drawers under the label _Narcotics,_ because surely being put to sleep would lessen Thomas’s discomfort, and to the extent of Alexander’s scientific knowledge, that was what a narcotic was…

On second thought--wasn't opium also a narcotic? Alexander brushed the question aside, though he did put all the tablets back except one; he didn't want a drug-addict housemate, after all. Better not take any chances.

\---

Alexander had never seen Thomas Jefferson asleep, and the sight made him slightly uncomfortable, the strange intimacy of it leaving him not only disturbed but slightly fearful. This was Thomas Jefferson, his nemesis, a bastard and a fool and an unconscionable _hypocrite,_ and Alexander wasn't supposed to be _worried_ about him, nor feel in regards to him this feeling that was no longer simply steely contempt.

Alexander told himself that the loosening sensation in his chest was because _finally, he was free of Jefferson’s racket-making,_ and not because _finally, Thomas seemed to no longer be in extreme discomfort._ He was perfectly aware that he wasn't being completely honest with himself, but he lobbed that notion (and any contemplation on what that meant) to the back of his mind as he rummaged once more through the storage closet and found gauze and a pair of what the internet called _tweezers_ and some disinfectant. Alexander told himself that he was just being _kind_ and repaying the man for allowing him to stay in his house as he carefully cleaned Thomas's wounds, fingers steady around the unconscious man’s limp hands, reminding himself of all the terrible things Thomas Jefferson had done.

 _But that was a long time ago,_ his brain remarked unhelpfully.

 _So?_ Alexander shot back. He cleaned out the next scratch with unnecessary roughness, although he knew that his patient could not possibly feel it.

 

 


	9. But Then She Dies

Quill. Ink. Parchment. Words spilling from the pen in his fingers. About _equality_ and _independence_. _Life_ and _Liberty_ and _Happiness._ He’s able to feel righteous if he shoves away the tiny part of his consciousness reminding him of Monticello and unpaid workers born into lifetime servitude.

\---

Martha’s belly swells with each passing day. She places his hand on her abdomen and he nods although he doesn't feel anything. Nods, smiles, and she beams back.

He’s unprepared for the baby’s first cries; they make his breath hitch and _yes, of course, I’ll hold her._ She’s light, tiny, and making a lot of noise but he doesn't mind and he holds her close but then she dies before her second birthday.

\---

1777 and another dead baby and Martha's tears stain her pillow. _It’s okay,_ he tells her, _we can try again, we’ll try again._ He murmurs it or something incomprehensible that is equivalent.

\---

The next summer Mary comes around. _Polly,_ they call her. _Polly the Parrot._

She is wonderful and beautiful and looks just like her mother and it warms him.

\---

They name their next baby Lucy, but she dies, so they give the name to the following one. He stays up late so that he can record her birth: _Our daughter Lucy Elizabeth (second of that name) born at one o’clock A.M._ The sky is dark and the night is quiet.

\---

Lucy’s birth makes Martha very sick, and she dies four months later in September and he is inconsolable. _My dear wife died this day at 11H-45’ A.M.,_ he writes with shaky fingers and blurred vision. He promises her to never remarry and hides in his room and he feels that he is missing something.

It’s 1782; Patsy is ten and Polly is four and Thomas is a wreck.

\---

The Revolutionary War ends in 1783 and he is appointed as the Virginia delegate to the Confederation Congress. He’s lauded as a visionary, a revolutionary, a hero, a founder.

 _A hypocrite?_ A voice whispers from the rear recesses of his mind.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I quoted from Jefferson's actual writings where he recorded his daughter's birth and wife's death [here](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Jefferson/02-01-02-0016).


	10. Pop-Up Toy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alexander Learns Something New About Thomas

Alexander tried to concentrate on his reading ( _The Rise and Fall of American Growth: The U.S. Standard of Living Since the Civil War_ by Robert J. Gordon) and failed--even though he could force his eyes to stay on the page, his mind wandered relentlessly back to his unconscious housemate.

Had he given him too much of that narcotic? Perhaps he was supposed to only give him half a tablet; perhaps he wasn't supposed to give him the narcotic at all. Should he have gone with Tylenol? Advil?

“Damn it,” Alexander muttered, glaring at the man reclined motionlessly on the couch. “If you don't wake up, you’d be doing this world a service.”

\---

When Thomas opened his eyes, the living room was ensconced by the dull, bruised lighting of a late afternoon in winter. The buildings of New York City had blinked on their lights, and Thomas spent a quiet moment to appreciate the coruscation of man-made stars.

His penthouse was silent, and a quick glance around told Thomas that Alexander was sitting on the carpet by the coffee table, his arms and head resting upon an open book on the surface.

His mind still ringing with residuals of the headache and colored by snapshots of his memories, Thomas adjusted his position with cautious slowness. He looked from his bandaged palms to the sleeping Alexander, a strange, flickering sensation welling up within him.

He didn't have a name for the sting in his eyes until he blinked and felt wetness coat his lashes and trail down his cheeks, scorching for an ephemeral moment before being chilled by the air, leaving behind an invisible track of phantom coolness. Thomas wondered how Alexander could be so composed, so _okay_ with waking up centuries after his death, knowing that everyone he had ever kissed or loved or hated was unequivocally _dead._ Maybe it was because Alexander hadn’t lived to watch his loved ones die in the first place; he’d dove headfirst into that foolhardy duel, seeking a suicidal selfishness. Or maybe it was just the way Alexander Hamilton was: devoted to the moment, ambitious for the future, too used to fighting free of his past to glance back and examine it, too proud of his present to look back and cry for what was already done and gone.

Thomas decided to allow himself, for a few minutes, to cry for a wife who had been dead for over two hundred years, to cry for the children that had not had the fortune to breathe past infancy, past toddlerhood. He stifled his tears with a palm pressed over his mouth, with teeth biting down on his tongue, with shoulders trembling and toes curling. He imagined that from the back, he might've looked like the silhouette of a pop-up toy fixed upon a stiff spring--oscillating, vibrating with a frequency too low to hear but hypnotic all the same.

“... Are you _crying?_ ”

Startled, Thomas hastily pressed a sleeve to his face before turning to meet Alexander's eyes across the coffee table. “No,” he fibbed, but the thickness in his voice belied his dishonesty.

“You _are,_ ” Alexander said, sounding too stunned to be mocking. “ _Why_ are you crying?”

“It’s nothing.”

Alexander's scrutinization made Thomas fidget. Those eyes were too bright in the dimness of the room, the fixated spark in them more suited to be part of the city skyline, one more pair of LED lights glimmering in the urban night scene.

“Bullshit,” Alexander said. When Thomas made no reply, he continued, “You were talking in your sleep.”

At that, Thomas turned--too fast; a stab of pain made him suck in a sharp breath--and looked at Alexander in alarm. “... What did I say?”

Alexander gave a shrug that wasn't quite nonchalant. “You seemed to be talking to your wife. About… babies”--Alexander shifted his eyes, seeming to recognize the awkward nature of the conversation. “And you talked about your daughters. Patsy and Polly.”

“... I see.”

They were both at a loss for words for a while. Then Alexander broke the uncomfortable silence (of course he did)--

“So why were you crying?”

“I wasn't.”

“You definitely were.”

Thomas sighed. “It was nothing. Just… I was remembering some things that made me a little emotional.”

“Some things… from back then?”

“... Yes.”

“Was the headache because of this… remembering, as well?

“Yes--no.”

Alexander's eyes narrowed. “It _was._ ”

Another sigh, this one of defeat, because despite having been out for the entire day, Thomas was too tired to keep up all of his inhibitions.

“So you get headaches when you remember new things?” Alexander prodded, sounding morbidly eager.

“Correct.”

Alexander nodded thoughtfully. Then, as if struck by a sudden realization--“So you _don't_ remember everything?”

“Mmhm,” Thomas replied, channeling his prowess at vagueness.

“So, like, you don't remember all the things up until you died?”

“'So, like?’” Thomas echoed, snorting in amusement. “Good job, you’re already sounding modern.”

Alexander ignored the remark. “So? Are you saying that you don't have all the memories of your previous life?”

“Yes. Congratulations, you make a good deductionist.”

“But--”

“To my knowledge, you’re the only one with the entirety of your memories intact, Alexander.”

“... Huh.”

“Do you feel special?” Thomas taunted with a sneer, though his heart wasn't in it. Before Alexander could reply, Thomas stood up on legs that might have been wobbling. “Anyway, I’m going to take a shower. Order something to eat, will you? Have them deliver it.”

\---

“Chinese takeout?” Thomas asked almost incredulously when he emerged into the kitchen, hair wet and a towel slung around his neck.

Alexander shrugged. “I wanted to try something new, and it seemed reasonably priced.”

 

 


	11. Before Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which They Talk and Alexander Tries to Understand but Fails at Tact

They ate in silence. The air felt thick, its figurative texture not unlike the stickiness of the food. Alexander struggled with the chopsticks, taking more than a few tries to semi-successfully pick up a piece of broccoli, but before he could shove it into his mouth, it slipped and fell onto the table, lying pathetically and shadowed by a greasy smear. Thomas, strangely, said nothing; he didn't even seem to be paying attention. Alexander wasn't used to it, but he also didn't know what to do, what _could_ be done.

Using a fork, he took a bite of what was called sesame chicken, chewing slowly. “It’s _salty,_ ” he said.

“That’s because you eat it with the rice,” Thomas replied dryly.

“Oh,” Alexander said, startled by the sudden input. He scooped some of the white rice from a takeout container. Finally, unable to stand the atmosphere, he asked, “So are you, um… _okay?_ ”

“I’m fine,” Thomas answered, and Alexander thought the quality of his response was almost robotic.

Alexander gave in to his curiosity--“What did you remember?”

Thomas’s eyes went wary. Warier. “… Snippets of things, events. The latest of which took place in 1782, when--”

“--your wife died,” Alexander finished unhelpfully (yes, he knew his interruptive words were pretty uncalled-for).

Thomas, however, seemed too dejected to even be angry. His only reaction was the faint glint of annoyance in the gaze he shot Alexander. “When Martha died, yes.”

“How did she die?” Alexander asked. He was aware, belatedly, that he was being tactless, that he really should've been filtering his words more cautiously, but--well, the words were out.

For his part, Thomas seemed unsurprised. He gave a stiff, one-shouldered shrug. “Medical knowledge back then wasn't great, so I don't know the exact name for her condition. But she never really… recovered from her last pregnancy.”

“... Oh,” Alexander said.

He knew, both from his memories and from his recent research, that, of Martha Jefferson's six children, only two had survived to adulthood. In contrast, Alexander had had eight children with Eliza, all of whom lived past childhood. With the exception of Philip (who, being the foolish lad that he’d been, had died in a duel at the age of nineteen), Alexander's children had all led longer lives than their father. For a moment, he entertained the thought that he should be grateful for such fortune, but--and maybe he was simply a lousy person for being this way--all Alexander felt was a disconnected sense of relief. He was glad, of course, that his children had grown up fine, that his wife had led a full, satisfying life even without him, but sitting here centuries later before Thomas's kitchen island and eating takeout food, Alexander’s memories felt distant, out of reach, as if he were remembering the scenes from a moving picture or a play in which he had unwittingly been an actor.

“I also remembered the births of some of the children,” Thomas continued, voice far away. “And their deaths.”

Alexander blinked, not having expected him to supply more information voluntarily. He made a noise of acknowledgement and tipped his chin down in a small nod.

“There was Jane, and a baby boy, and Polly, and two Lucys.” His voice turned tremorous. “Only Polly and the second Lucy lived past infancy, and though I don't yet remember, I know Lucy would die when she was only two and a half--”

“But, Thomas,” Alexander began, knowing that his next words were insensitivity at its finest but also harboring genuine curiosity and, he wasn’t afraid to admit, a darker undercurrent of an appetite that wished to see the man squirm. It still felt strange to speak Jefferson's first name out loud. “They’ve all been dead for a while, now--does it really matter anymore how long they had lived? Does your past life really carry so much weight?”

Thomas barked out a hollow laugh. “You know what it is about you that irks me the most? That puzzles me the most? The fact that you’re able to shove the past away so ruthlessly, without an iota of regret. That you are willing to throw away your past for the sake of your present. That you automatically sacrifice memories for ambitions. You’re impulsive, a torrent of brilliance and emotions, but sometimes you’re so--so _remote_ that it’s scary.” Thomas's expression shifted into a curious blend of wariness and something else that Alexander couldn't identify, something carefully crafted and maintained. “Plus--tell me--if my past life doesn't really ‘carry so much weight,’ does it mean that the hypocrisies I’d endorsed back then somehow count _less?_ ”

And now Alexander understood--that previously unidentifiable emotion in Thomas's expression was desperation. It was hopeful and guilty and timid; it was helpless and forlorn and self-deprecating. “Well,” he said carefully, “I guess it’s a good thing to be repentant--and I’m of the opinion that you most definitely deserve to feel guilt and shame and beat yourself up relentlessly for the abominable things you’ve done--but it’s… frustrating watching you acting so fucking _sentimental_ over things in the past--”

“What do you mean _sentimental?_ It’s _perfectly normal_ to be sad when you think about your _dead family._ ”

“But they’ve _been dead_ \--for like two hundred years!”

“Well, to me it’s like they just died yesterday! Before today I hadn’t even _known_ what most of my children _looked like!_ ”

 _Oh._ It had slipped Alexander’s mind that unlike himself, Thomas hadn’t found himself in this new world with all his memories intact. Thomas hadn’t possessed all the mental visuals of his previous life, of steam engines and horse-drawn carts; hadn’t remembered the innocent wailing of each of his children, the softness of their grubby hands; hadn’t known the pain of having the warmth of family and friends wrenched from him, suddenly and brutally--until today. _What must it be like?_ Alexander wondered; he couldn’t imagine, wasn’t sure if he _wanted_ to imagine.

“Oh,” he said, eloquently. “Were they cute? The children. Did they look like you? Oh god, miniature versions of you--”

“You’re a terrible person, Hamilton,” Thomas cut him off. His voice lacked aggression--it was soft, tired, like a flimsy snowflake that would melt before it even hit the ground.

“What?” Alexander replayed the conversation in his mind. “Are you talking about me ‘throwing away my past?’ Because I _don’t._ Not all the time, at least--I just channel it into more productive pursuits--”

“No, I meant that you’re awful at comforting people.”

“I wasn’t trying to comfort you,” Alexander contested. _Was he?_

“Right,” Thomas said, tone dubious. “That must be why you’re so bad at it.”

“I’m perfectly capable of providing emotional support!” Alexander insisted.

“Mmhm. Do you still need that bowl?”

Alexander shook his head and handed his bowl to Thomas, who had stood up and half-turned towards the sink with his own bowl.

“Yes and no.” Thomas said.

Alexander wasn’t following. “What?”

“Yes, they were fucking adorable”--the quietness of his words were at odds with his choice of diction--“No, they didn’t look so much like me. They took after their mother.”

Alexander noted the use of past tense; tried not to feel a sense of lightness at the fact that Thomas’s grief seemed to have mostly been converted into a subtler layer of melancholy wrapping around his voice, because he didn’t want to think about what that would mean.

“I see,” Alexander responded. Then, belatedly, “Thomas? Happy New Year. I guess.”

“Hasn’t really been that happy, but--thank you.”

\---

That night Alexander lay in bed, bundled under fluffy covers, mind churning too hard to fall asleep.

_Is “not remembering” a valid excuse for bad things done?_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't imagine how it'd be like to lose child after child :(


	12. A Vested Interest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thomas Gives Alexander a Phone

“You need a phone,” Thomas said, days later.

“A cell phone?” Alexander asked, eyes bright. “Like that glowing rectangle of yours?”

“... ‘Glowing rectangle.’ Nice. And yes, a cell phone.”

\---

“Alexander.”

“Hm?”

“It’s time for dinner.”

“Mmhm.”

“Are you going to eat?”

“Later.”

“... You haven't eaten anything all day.”

“Not hungry.”

“What are you _doing?_ ” Muffled steps. “You’ve been glued to the phone since _morning._ ”

“Mmhm--Hey! Give it back!”

“What is this--‘It would be not only ineffective but also detrimental to put in place these abysmal tax policies which will do nothing but allow monopolies to continue to choke off economic growth and competition, especially at a time when…’ My god, Hamilton, are you seriously writing articles on current politics? _On your phone?_ ”

“If I am?”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Don't _you_ care about the world? We helped build this country; it’s only natural that we take a vested interest in its development.”

“No, I mean--you write these articles, and then? What do you _do_ with them?”

“... I have a blog.”

“Right, of course you do.”

“I have a decent number of readers.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Can I have the phone back?”

“I don't understand though--why don't you use the laptop?”

Avoiding eye contact, “I--uh. It kind of overheated.”

Wryly, “I’m not even surprised.”

Palm held out expectantly. “Phone?”

“No. You go eat, and _then_ I’ll give you the phone back.”

“That’s so not fair.”

“I paid for this phone.”

"...”

“...”

“...  _Fine!_ ” Stomping. Chair being moved, clothes rustling. Angry noises of utensils clanging against a bowl.

“By the way, Alexander?”

Grouchily, “What?”

“You’re wrong."

“About what?”

“About taxes. Your article is wrong.”

They argued all throughout the meal. And even after the dishes had been washed and put aside to dry, they remained about the kitchen, debating the follies and merits (primarily the former) present within each other’s political views. The topics of their discussion spun from taxes to gender issues, from immigration to gun control, as they dawdled longer on the subjects in which they dissent and breezed over their concurrences. They seemed to enjoy the genial discord, falling easily into familiar rhythms of argument but without much of the hostilities from centuries earlier. By the time they reluctantly agreed to disagree--finally too tired and calling a stalemate--and went separate ways to their own rooms, it was way past midnight.

For the first night since he remembered Martha's touch, her voice, her tears, with his mind still buzzing with the heady giddiness of a stimulating intellectual discourse, Thomas’s eyes fell closed and he didn't see her death.

 

 


	13. Imperatives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alexander Bothers Thomas

“Tho _maaas!_ ” Alexander wailed from where he sat on the couch, a new laptop resting on his legs.

Not looking away from the news on his phone, Thomas took a leisurely sip of coffee, then said, with an air of laziness, “What?”

“This person is insufferable! He’s not even disagreeing with my articles--it’s more like he’s got something against _my person!_ And he doesn’t even _know_ me!”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s doing all sorts of name-calling!”

“And?"

“Do you have any good insults I can send back?”

“And here I thought you were an intellectual who argued with facts.”

“I expend effort only when conversing with people of my caliber,” Alexander scoffed.

Thomas wasn't exactly sure when he had grown used to the man’s arrogant attitude, but to his own mild unease, he found himself pleased with the notion that Alexander had deemed himself someone “of his caliber” and maintained entire conversations with him that had lasted hours and spanned days.

“Why don’t you just mute him? Ban him from commenting or something,” Thomas suggested.

A flat refusal--“No. That’s like _admitting defeat._ ”

\---

“Read this,” Alexander said, shoving his laptop at Thomas.

“Why?”

“So you can edit it.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“ _Please?_ ”

“... Send it to me. If I do it, it’ll be after I finish my _own_ work.”

Alexander positively _squealed,_ and though Thomas didn't turn to look at him, he could imagine the man beaming, and the thought brought a curvature creeping over his own mouth.

\---

“I’m _bored,_ ” Alexander complained, tone peevish.

He was lying idly on one of the couches, an arm dangling over the cushions and grazing the carpet. His hair had gotten longer than he was used to, and a few strands draped haphazardly over his face.

“Go write your articles,” Thomas told him from where he was working on the coffee table.

It had become almost normal, for them to both hover around the living room, reading, writing, working. Whenever Alexander got bored--which was very often--he’d attempt to strike a conversation with Thomas. Sometimes Thomas obliged him, and they would inevitably get into a disagreement which then would evolve into a full-blown debate; usually, though, Thomas gave him one-word responses or brushed him off with unhelpful suggestions--like now.

“I’ve already written, like, twelve,” Alexander said. “I’m ahead of my posting schedule by a week.”

“You have a posting schedule,” Thomas deadpanned.

“Yes, duh.”

“Okay.” (Alexander could hear the verbal shrug in Thomas's voice.)

“I need clothes,” Alexander continued, changing the subject.

“What do you mean? You basically have free access to my entire closet.”

“But your clothes are too big for me!” Alexander raised his feet and waved them a few times in the air. “See this? These pant legs are so long!”

“Just roll them up. It’s not my fault you’re short,” Thomas retorted, barely sparing the raised legs a glance.

“I’m not going to go outside with rolled-up pant legs like a toddler!” Alexander protested.

“Your problem.” A few taps of fingertips on keys. “… Or, you know, you could make your own money and buy your own stuff.”

“I can't get a job if I can't leave the house.”

“Don't you have a lot to say? Write a book or something. Or make money with that blog of yours by placing some ads.”

 _Well…_ Alexander thought, grudgingly. _He’s got a point._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexander in Thomas's clothes, which to him are oversized, is kind of an adorable mental concept.
> 
> I've sort of shied away from any descriptions of physical characteristics such as eye color, skin color, hair color, etc. because 1) I haven't really actually seen _Hamilton_ the musical, 2) the actors are bound to change, 3) the historical figures don't look like the musical actors, and 4) whenever I read I don't really envision the physical traits of the characters, and instead I sort of cradle the notions of them in my mind, like formless blobs of sentience and personality.


	14. Not Unlike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cake Is Cut and Wine Is Spilled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like desserts.

January 11th. New York City was blanketed by a layer of white. Alexander whiled away his day on the couch with a laptop and more than one cup of hot coffee, working on that book Thomas had told him to write.

Alexander had all but forgotten that it was his birthday until, after dinner, Thomas took out a beautiful, extravagant cake from somewhere in his fridge--which was weird, considering that Alexander had rummaged through the fridge on multiple occasions that day but had never once noticed something as conspicuous as a _cake._ It was a gorgeous piece of confectionery, crafted with an almost architectural precision, adorned by colorful pieces of fruits and thin chocolate shavings over snow-white frosting. It was medium-sized, with a stylish circular form, and the layers of cream had been sculpted into geometric curves. Printed within a rectangular sign (also made of chocolate) were the words _Happy Birthday, Alexander!_

“You-- _what?_ ” Alexander sputtered uncharacteristically. As if it wasn't weird enough that Thomas Jefferson knew his fucking birthday, he was now _celebrating it for him?_

“Can't you read, Alexander? It’s your birthday, and birthdays require cakes.” Thomas said it matter-of-factly, like it was perfectly normal--

 _It isn't!_ Alexander yelled mentally. _It’s not normal at all!_ “But… why?”

Thomas shrugged. “Why not? It’s your first birthday in centuries. You should celebrate it.”

Alexander scowled, though it was out of confusion, not displeasure. Indeed, he wasn't displeased at all; a warm feeling was stretching its tendrils along his veins. “And you know my birthday _why?_ ”

“I was reading a biography of you, remember?” Thomas said.

Oh, right--“ _Why_ were you reading a biography of me?”

Another shrug. Maybe it was simply Alexander's imagination, but his movements this time looked slightly awkward. Shifty. Alexander’s eyes narrowed.

“I was curious about you,” Thomas answered. “Wanted to see if I could learn more about you.”

“Why would you think modern historians would possibly know more about me than you yourself, who had been one of my contemporaries?”

“All we did back then was argue and denounce each other most of the time! If I had done any research on you, it would have been with the intention of digging up dirt about you.”

“... Should I be offended?” Alexander asked with raised eyebrows. (He wasn't offended.)

“What? It’s true.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Alexander gestured at the cake. “And thank you,” he said, earnestly.

Thomas smiled, and the sight of it affected Alexander in a strange, semi-unfamiliar way.

“It’s one of my favorite cakes,” Thomas explained. “I think you’ll like it.”

“It’s a very pretty cake--but then, I wouldn't expect anything less from you.”

Thomas laughed. He set down two glasses and poured wine into them, filling them with rich reddish purple. Alexander didn't often drink wine (nor had he, back then), but in that moment--still a little hung up on the fact that _Jefferson remembered his birthday and got him a cake,_ his ears ringing with whispering echoes of Thomas's laugh--Alexander thought that the wine had a nice fragrance: pleasant, cordial, calming and heavy.

Thomas passed him a glass by its stem, and as Alexander took it, gingerly, and their fingers brushed, he noticed it but didn't understand why he noticed it. They touched glasses, producing a soft, rounded note, and each took a sip--Thomas seemed to savor the drink, bathing his tongue in the vibrant liquid, whereas Alexander merely permitted the alcohol to slip right past his throat.

“Happy twenty-fifth birthday,” Thomas congratulated, “Alexander Hayden.”

“Ha,” Alexander said. “Right--new identity and all that. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Thomas replied, voice warm from the alcohol. He’d refilled his cup.

They cut slices from the cake and sat there, biting into the creamy, spongy sweetness and sipping red wine--which seemed less bitter and nicer tasting the more Alexander drank.

“You know,” Alexander said. “I’m glad I met you--”

“--Well, yeah, ’cause otherwise you’d be starving on the streets--”

“No, I mean, I’m glad I met you a few months ago, but what I’m saying is that I’m glad I met you _back then--_ ”

“Yeah, right.”

“No, really--you’re a really intelligent person, and those are always the most interesting--”

“So I’m entertainment?”

Alexander shrugged. “That’s one way to put it…”

“Why, thank you,” Thomas drawled dryly, but he was smiling.

They bumped glasses again--Alexander’s half-full, and Thomas's recently refilled.

\---

More meaningless chattering; they were less having coherent discussions and more taking peculiar comfort in the droning of each other’s voice.

At one point, while pouring himself yet another glass of wine, Thomas had accidentally knocked over his by then half-full drink. Alexander, still on the last dregs if his first glass, watched in a daze as the deep ruby liquid vivaciously crawled with its tendrils across the surface of the table, finally dripping off the ledge and landing onto the stomach of his ivory sweater. There, it continued to spread--a small, dark garnet stain growing into a larger, roughly circular area of a paler champagne pink.

“Sorry,” Thomas said, his soft, slightly muffled voice hinting at the heaviness of his tongue and the toll of all the alcohol he’d drunk. He proceeded to clean the tabletop with numerous pieces of paper towels. When he moved to dab at Alexander's sweater, though, Alexander waved him off, saying, “It’s fine. I’ve never really liked this sweater anyway.”

Thomas's eyes narrowed almost comically, addled with alcohol as he was and with his pupils visibly dilated. “It’s _my sweater._ I’m pretty sure you just insulted me.”

Alexander gave him his most shit-eating grin (he knew), and Thomas responded with a clumsy middle finger.

\---

Thomas wasn't exactly sure why he drank so much. He wasn't exactly sure why he’d gotten Alexander a cake, either. He just, through the fog of alcohol, remembered that he’d wanted to surprise to man--surely, despite all his ramblings about “leaving the past behind,” Alexander still occasionally felt the desolation of missing his family.

Thomas knew he was slightly drunk when he spilled the wine, but somehow he didn't mind. And it wasn't the not-minding of someone who was alone and wallowing (Thomas wasn't the type of person who would allow himself to drink to oblivion, anyway, not ever again)--it was that he felt a strange sense of security up here in his penthouse. Instead of feeling loneliness at being suspended hundreds of meters above a crowded city as he had, in the past, often been wont to do, Thomas had now gotten used to Alexander's presence, even taken to feeling a sense of ease with him there--

Whether he liked it or not.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a strange satisfaction in listening to the sound of rain.


	15. Sure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which They Share a Bed (but Not the Blankets)

Current Dilemma: Drunk Thomas.

More Specifically, a Drunk Thomas Passed Out on the Table.

Alexander poked repeatedly at his housemate’s arm, but all he got were mumbled noises that were at best incoherent and at worst incomprehensible.

He had considered simply leaving the man there in the kitchen and going to sleep, but a tug from his conscience made him sigh and dispel the idea. He put away the cake, tossed the paper plates and plastic forks, and briefly rinsed the wineglasses. Then, using a considerable amount of strength, he dragged the taller man up, grateful that at least Thomas was conscious, albeit barely.

They stumbled to Thomas's room, where Alexander heaved the man onto the bed, catching a whiff of alcohol from his half-open mouth; Alexander scrunched up his nose at the smell. With the drunken man’s weight off his shoulders, Alexander remained for a moment beside the bed, taking in the sight and reveling in the strange absurdity of the situation.

When had they progressed from enemies to… _this?_ When had Alexander decided to look past his mental construct of _Jefferson_ and regard this person now slung across a half-made bed simply as _Thomas?_ Alexander couldn't figure out the answers to these questions, and wondered, too, if they even really mattered.

As he stood to leave, however, fingers tugged on his hand--weak, slack fingers that nevertheless held enough compulsion to keep Alexander back.

“Go to sleep, Thomas,” Alexander said quietly, not wanting to startle the man.

Thomas's fingers tightened, though only a little and Alexander could easily pull away. But he didn't.

“You should stay here,” Thomas proposed with mostly-lidded eyes.

Alexander raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

“Because!” Thomas said, whining. “It’s your _birthday,_ and you’re _warm_ and it’s _cold_ outside and you make me feel steady and less lonely.”

Alexander blinked at the lack of filtering, at the rawness in his murmured speech, rendered a slurred mess by aged red wine. Slowly, he sat down at the edge of Thomas's bed, the mattress dipping pleasantly under his weight. He still didn't pull his hand from Thomas's limp grasp--he found the faintest pulses in the pads of Thomas's fingertips weirdly soothing.

\---

Thomas woke up to the heat of another body pressed against him--firm, unwavering. He wasn't even completely shocked when he lifted his lids to find Alexander beside him: in his bed, having wrapped himself in layers of Thomas's blankets. Alexander's eyes were closed, his breathing even; for some reason Thomas noted that the man’s lashes were decently long and nicely curved.

It was still dark outside, though the sheet of snow covering the sidewalks and rooftops seemed to cast the night in a strangely reflective glow. Thomas carefully disentangled himself from the tiny corners of a blanket not completely hogged by Alexander and slipped free from an arm half-draped over his midriff. He got out of the bed, feeling slightly queasy--perhaps he shouldn't have drunk _that_ much--and shivering, deprived suddenly of the warmth of the covers. And of Alexander.

Thomas made his way on uneven footsteps to the bathroom, where he peed and brushed his teeth. Afterwards, he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror.

What was he _doing?_ Against a tiny voice inside of him telling him it was a bad idea, Thomas flopped back onto his bed, beside Alexander, and resumed sleeping, not having arrived at any answers.

\---

Alexander yanked hard at a blanket, eyes still lidded and brain not entirely awake. Fuck, it was _cold,_ and he just wanted to be bundled up in soft covers, but someone was holding firmly onto another edge of the blanket he was pulling at and preventing him from achieving _warmth._

“Good morning,” said a voice that had grown familiar.

Scowling, Alexander pried open his own eyes with reluctance to see Thomas sitting up on the bed beside him with a laptop, having covered himself with part of Alexander's desired blanket. Right, he’d gone to sleep here because Thomas had asked him to--

_Since when did you fucking take orders from Thomas Jefferson?_

\--Alexander recalled the cake and the wine and Thomas's bleary voice imploring him to _stay here--_

 _If he wanted you to stay you should logically be entitled to the fucking_ blankets.

\--Alexander tugged harder at the blanket, but to no avail. He heard Thomas chuckle at his efforts, and the sound sent a stuttering through his chest that he didn't find unexpected, didn't find unpleasant.

“I’m _cold,_ ” Alexander groused, voice slightly hoarse from sleep.

“You already have, like, three layers around you,” Thomas pointed out.

“Well, _you_ made me stay, so _I deserve all the blankets._ ”

“... I don't think that’s how things work. I’m pretty sure inviting someone to bed means you _share_ the blankets.”

“'Inviting someone to bed?’” Alexander echoed, brows lifted. “I wasn't aware that _that_ was the nature of your request for me to stay--”

“It wasn't.” And wasn't _that_ adorable?--Thomas Jefferson, _blushing._

“You sure?” Alexander teased, smirking.

“I’m sure.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unrelated, but--  
> I've just finished a pretty cool book featuring magicians.  
> It's called _[The Magician's Lie](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/21897317-the-magician-s-lie)_ and the writing and details were both enjoyable for me.


	16. Purple and Blue and Gray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which They Go Shopping, and Melodrama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deal with it

They went shopping.

\---

“ _Stop giving me purple things!_ ” Alexander snapped.

“But they look good on you,” Thomas protested, holding a purple jacket up to Alexander and eyeing it appraisingly.

“ _No. They don't._ Your eyes are just defective.”

Thomas gave a dramatic sigh, but wandered off, presumably to put away the jacket and hopefully not to return with another equally obnoxious article of clothing.

\---

“ _I don't fucking need high-heeled shoes!_ ” Alexander snarled.

“But they’ll make you _taller,_ ” Thomas reasoned.

“I’m _not that short._ ”

“These shoes aren't _that high._ ”

“No means _no._ ”

“Fine. You’d probably trip over yourself in these shoes anyway.”

“I _would not!_ ”

\---

Holding a tray of food and drinks, Thomas grabbed some napkins and straws from a dispenser, then made his way to the table in the food court where Alexander was sitting. He found his companion strangely transfixed by something, and when he followed his gaze, Thomas spotted a man talking to a little boy. The man was dressed in a blue jacket and dark gray jeans; the boy wore a puffy red coat and cobalt blue pants that just barely trailed the floor.

Before Thomas could figure out what was so fascinating about the two, Alexander abruptly stood up from his seat and was striding unerringly towards them. Thomas gently set down the food tray and watched, still standing, as Alexander approached them.

Alexander seemed to say something enthusiastically, pulling the boy towards himself. Thomas observed a myriad of emotions splash across the other man’s face--irritation quickly masked with jovial pleasantness, narrowed eyes smoothed over by a wide smile. Alexander flashed a smile of his own--an affected, rigid upturn of the corners of his mouth, Thomas noted, then wondered what it said about him that he could distinguish between Alexander's real and fake expressions.

Still smiling, the other man gave the little boy a wave, turned, and began walking away. A few steps later, the smile slipped off his face, and Thomas noticed then with some alarm that he was carrying a gun.

 _There’s nothing wrong with him carrying a gun,_ he told himself. _It’s written clearly in the Bill of Rights._ Still unsettled, Thomas slid his gaze to Alexander, who had knelt down to the boy’s height and was now saying something. The boy nodded, and Alexander stood up, holding out a hand. The boy placed his own smaller hand in Alexander’s, and Alexander turned in Thomas's direction and mouthed what Thomas thought was _I’ll be right back._

\---

“What happened?” Thomas asked the moment Alexander sat down, the boy no longer with him.

Alexander plucked a fry from the tray and tossed it into his mouth. After chewing and swallowing, he said, “I took the kid to customer service.”

“Why? Who was that man?”

Alexander shrugged lightly. “No one good,” he said. “I think he was trying to kidnap the kid.”

“How did you figure that?”

“He’s got a gun. Plus, the kid didn't seem to know him.” Another bite of food. “It was just a feeling at first, but I grew more certain when I actually approached them.”

“That is actually very typical of you, Alexander, to act upon a hunch.”

“Why, thanks, Thomas.”

\---

Stepping out of one of the side entrances of the shopping center, Thomas raised a hand to shield his eyes from the permeating sunlight of early afternoon, reflected manifold by the ubiquitous stacks of snow.

Meanwhile, Alexander complained. “It’s _blinding!_ Why did we come out this way? Why couldn't we have just ridden the elevator down to the parking levels?”

“There’s a bakery nearby that I want to go to,” Thomas replied, just as his vision snagged on blue and almost-black, on the silhouette of a person.

He processed the scene too late, and by the time he realized what was happening--that the person’s arms were up, that he was holding a firearm, that said firearm was aimed at Alexander--the crack of a gunshot had already traveled through the air and was reverberating on his eardrums.

Alexander let out a violent _mmph_ followed by a few whimpers as he dropped to his knees. Thomas quickly lowered himself down into a kneel beside him, his hands reaching out to Alexander's shoulders to support him.

His thoughts elusive, Thomas contemplated that he maybe should have been keeping track of the shooter’s actions, or chasing after the man, even--but no, that second idea was stupid, the man had a fucking _gun--_

Thomas blinked himself free of the feckless thoughts and focused on inspecting Alexander. The bullet had gone in through the left side of his abdomen, maybe through his left oblique muscle. There was a hole through Alexander’s jacket; his hand was pressed weakly over it. Thomas pressed his own fingers over Alexander’s, adding to the pressure. He felt a twinge in his chest when Alexander let out a gasp and a hiss and a whispered _fuck._ With his other hand, Thomas called for an ambulance.

Then there wasn't much to do but wait--tediously, anxiously, painfully.

“You’ll be fine,” Thomas told Alexander, trying to convince both of them, _either_ of them.

“Ha,” came Alexander's weak laugh. “You’re pretty darn optimistic.”

Thomas slipped his cell phone back into a random pocket of his jacket, and with the free hand he almost instinctively cupped Alexander’s cheek, the tips of his fingers sliding into the man’s hair. Thomas could discern the pulse at Alexander's temple, and for a moment it felt alarmingly fragile, although that could just be Thomas's panicked imagination.

“Stay with me,” Thomas urged him. “Stay conscious.”

“That’s asking quite a bit, Jefferson,” Alexander responded, somehow still managing to sound snarky. “It hurts like hell.”

“I know,” Thomas said, hating how his voice shook, not understanding why his voice shook--or, he was _starting_ to understand why, though wasn't sure if he was ready for the answer. “I know, Alexander. But stay awake. Focus on something. Anything. Just stay awa--”

Thomas’s words were stifled by a sudden jerk of his head down towards Alexander and the clumsy crashing-together of their mouths. He was moving his own lips against Alexander’s before he’d even recognized the action for what it was--a kiss.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (・∀・)


	17. All the Problems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Hematemesis:** the vomiting of blood

It started out desperate--a clashing of teeth and lips and Thomas panicked at the taste of iron and blood, thinking that the gunshot had been serious enough to induce hematemesis, before realizing that it was his own mouth that was the source of the bleeding; in his roughness, Alexander had rammed his teeth into Thomas's upper lip, hard enough to draw blood. Eventually, though, Alexander’s mouth slowed, conceding to move at an almost gentle pace, as if he weren't bleeding out on the pavement in the middle of New York City, under the blinding glare of early afternoon sunlight, but making out with Thomas on a mattress with heaters chasing away wintry frost, under the intimacy of an empty apartment.

The nature of the mental simile surprised Thomas--did he _wish_ to be making out with Alexander, in bed?--but in that moment he chose to spare no energy thinking about it and what it indicated. His brain was on a disorderly, repetitive loop, fixated on two things: his fingers pressed over Alexander’s own over a gunshot wound ( _and was Alexander’s blood the slickness spreading between their fingers?_ ) and his lips pressed over Alexander’s--sweet and salty and carrying more than a hint of fear.

\---

Alexander could have blamed it on the adrenaline or trauma or even blood loss, but he found that he didn't really want to. What it came down to was simple: he was hurting and he was freezing and he was scared that he was going to fucking _die_ and he wanted to kiss Thomas fucking Jefferson because in that moment it seemed like a good idea--like a great idea; the best idea ever, in fact. See, kissing Thomas would solve all his problems--it’d be a distraction from the pain and the fear and Thomas’s proximity would help keep him warm.

Also, there was that part of him--that insistent, brazen part of him--that thought recklessly that if he was going to die anyway, he might as well kiss his ex-nemesis without the diffidence that came with the dread of being rejected or mocked.

But it turned out that it didn't matter, because Thomas returned the kiss. And their kiss was both surprisingly and expectedly amazing, and it _did,_ in fact, bring Alexander warmth and anchor him to the conscious realm while keeping his mind from the pain and the prospect of death.

Alexander wasn't sure how long he’d wanted to kiss Thomas--wasn’t sure how long he’d felt _that way_ for the man. But the kiss brought irrefutable confirmation, and Alexander felt his stomach somersault. Fuck if things weren't getting overly complicated.

\---

Alexander had the nerve to be smirking when they finally pulled apart, although his lips appeared unnaturally pale to Thomas and there seemed to be a strain in his gaze.

“You--I--what? Why?” Thomas stammered incoherently. He could hear the breathless quality of his own voice.

“You told me to stay conscious. Focus on something,” Alexander offered, as if it were a perfectly valid explanation. (It wasn't _invalid,_ Thomas supposed.)

“I didn’t mean--” Thomas began, but for the second time that afternoon his words were cut off; the ambulance arrived and Thomas tried his best to have faith in the fluttering of medical personnel around him as they set Alexander on a gurney--too roughly, Thomas thought--and wheeled him into the ambulance and slammed the doors shut with a rude _thud._

Thomas declined their offer for him to ride along in the ambulance despite--well, despite wanting to be there, to touch Alexander’s hand and be assured of his substantiality, to ensure that Alexander didn't just quietly slip away.

Instead, Thomas hurried to where he’d parked his car. He hoisted himself in and sat, dumbly, before the steering wheel. After a few minutes of deep breathing, with his mind a little bit clearer, Thomas began to berate himself for not going in the ambulance. What if something bad happened? What if he never got to know the meaning of their one kiss? What if--

Thomas pulled out of the parking lot and headed towards the hospital, the pad of his foot steady on the gas pedal, his fingers damp with sweat as they gripped the steering wheel with unnecessary tightness.

 

 


	18. Unconvinced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alexander Gets Out of the Hospital

“I can't believe you _abandoned_ me,” Alexander said by way of greeting when Thomas entered the hospital ward with a hurried skid.

The grumbling tone of his voice sent a wave of relief through Thomas. If Alexander could still complain and whine and act _Alexander-like,_ then it must mean that he was more or less fine.

“I did not,” Thomas said, walking over towards the bed. He dragged a chair over and sat down. “I was just being practical. I didn't want to leave the car.”

“ _Riiiight,_ ” Alexander drawled, unconvinced.

“Well--that, and I wanted to… think,” Thomas offered lamely.

A quirked eyebrow. “To think? About what?”

Thomas scowled. “You _know_ what.”

He watched as amusement danced upon Alexander’s lips--lips that he’d been kissing not an hour before.

“I suppose I do,” Alexander agreed. “So what did you think about it?”

“... I, uh.” Thomas hesitated. “It was nice?”

Alexander’s brows rose higher, and then he burst out laughing, only to wince at the tremulous movement moments after. “Ow,” he hissed. Then, to Thomas, he said, “Very eloquent, Thomas.”

“Shut up, Alexander--what about _you?_ ”

A sly smile curled Alexander’s mouth. “It was… passing.”

“Merely ‘passing?’” Thomas echoed. “I’m kind of offended, Alexander. I’ve been told that I kiss well.”

“Yeah? By whom?” Alexander taunted. Then, before Thomas could counter with his own quip, as if suddenly remembering something, Alexander said hastily, “Wait--never mind.”

Thomas frowned. “... What?”

“Nothing. Anyway, you kiss decently enough. So thanks for providing sufficient distraction.”

Thomas wasn't sure how he felt about being considered a _distraction,_ but nor was he ready to be considered more than a distraction. So he huffed an exaggeration of a sigh, and they talked about other complications that were simpler to decipher--Alexander’s wound, the shooter, the lacking merits of the decorations on the hospital walls.

\---

A week later, Alexander was more than ecstatic to leave the hospital and step foot back into Thomas's penthouse, which, for better or for worse, had begun feeling like home.

They still hadn't caught the shooter. The security footage in which the man had been caught was outdated and too blurry to make any progress, and of course there had to have been no witnesses. Alexander should have taken a picture or something--he’d never forgive himself if the man tried to abduct another unsuspecting child and succeeded. And plus--getting shot hurt like hell.

“Damn, I've missed this place,” Alexander said, flopping carefully down onto a couch. He looked up to a faint smile worn on Thomas's face, and the sight made the rhythm of his breathing slightly confused.

Alexander grinned cheekily. “Have you missed my presence?”

“As much as I hate to admit it,” Thomas said ruefully, “yes, your presence has been missed.”

And Alexander couldn’t keep the genuine smile from his face.

\---

They neither repeated nor talked again about the kiss. Alexander wasn't about to bring it up--he wasn't sure if he was prepared to assume all the baggage that came with Thomas Jefferson, wasn't sure if Thomas was ready to deal with the burden of another flawed relationship (because Alexander was intelligent enough to know that their relationship would be far from perfect). It wasn't that he feared how he--they--would be regarded by others; being labeled a sodomite or some other ugly name was no longer a factor in Alexander's hesitation, not like it had once been centuries ago with John. The way this world worked suited Alexander just fine, gave him relative freedom to choose whom he wanted to be with, freed him from any guilt that might have haunted him about the feelings he’d never acted upon, prior to his kiss with Thomas.

No, Alexander simply didn't know if he could really bring himself to admit that he held _that kind_ of feelings for Thomas Jefferson--who not only held sucky ideas but also once indulged in terrible hypocrisies.

Alexander wasn't perfect either. He’d done plenty of bad things, himself. He was far from being in a position to pass judgments on Thomas Jefferson; he could not forgive, nor could he condemn--and, furthermore, what would be the point? It wasn't as if Thomas could undo what he’d done, anyway.

\---

“So,” Thomas said.

“Hm?”

“You actually published a book.”

“Mmhm.”

“Which you wrote in a month.”

“Yeah.”

“And now it’s a bestseller.”

“Yep.”

Thomas shook his head in resignation. “Even though all the stuff you wrote is complete bogus.”

“It’s _not._ ”

“Yes it is--look, money doesn't work that way. Hell, _governments_ don't work like that…”

And they argued, took bathroom breaks, and continued to argue, until they realized that they’d missed dinner and that they were starving, at which point Thomas made some mac and cheese.

Alexander didn't even complain (that much).

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I trust that we all know who the "John" from "centuries ago" is  
> (ㆁωㆁ)


	19. Now That You've Seen Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Trip Is Announced

“You’re going _where?_ ” Alexander asked.

“China,” Thomas answered, tossing clothes into a suitcase.

“Do you even know how to speak Chinese?”

“No, but I don't need to. English works just fine.”

“... How long are you going to be gone?”

“Three weeks?”

“That’s _long!_ What are you even _doing_ there?”

“Inspecting land and houses and buildings. Negotiations. Conferences. That sort of stuff.” Thomas paused in his packing and smirked. “What, will you miss me?”

“You wish. It’s just I’m going to be so _bored._ And what am I going to _eat?_ "

Thomas laughed, remembering the one disastrous instance where Alexander had tried to cook. “Just order out,” he told him. “It’s New York City. Food is pretty accessible. Try some new things.”

“But I’ll be _bored._ ”

“Write more.”

\---

 _I’ll be lonely,_ Alexander didn't say.

\---

“Call me if anything terrible happens,” Thomas reminded Alexander for the fifth time that morning.

“Yeah, yeah. _I know,_ ” Alexander mumbled, voice bleary with sleep. It was _actually_ too fucking early to be out of bed; he didn't know what Thomas was thinking. “How could you think it was a good idea to book a flight at seven AM? And why did you have to wake _me_ up?”

“The thought of traveling at night, after the happenings of an entire day, doesn't appeal to me,” Thomas said. “And I needed to make sure--”

“That I know to _call you if something terrible happens._ I’m not stupid, Thomas.”

“I know,” Thomas said softly. Wistfully. “And I wanted to see you before I leave.”

 _You know,_ Alexander thought but did not voice aloud, _you say the weirdest things sometimes._ What he said was, “Yeah, well, you’ve seen me. Now _go_ ”--he opened the door and pushed Thomas towards the doorway--”so I can go back to sleep.”

“Okay--fine. Don't _shove_ me,” Thomas said, twisting around to look back at Alexander. “Remember, call me if--”

Alexander shut him up with a kiss. When he pulled back, he barely spared a glance at Thomas's surprised face. Instead, he shoved the man the rest of the way out, slammed the door in his face, and after checking that it had locked automatically, went back to his room and fell into his bed, asleep within seconds.

\---

In the elevator, Thomas wore a small, troubled smile. When a _ding_ signaled that he’d arrived at his destination floor, he shook his head a few times, as if to clear it.

Stepping out of the elevator, Thomas unconsciously brushed a knuckle over his mouth.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Alexander is Rude


	20. Overcast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alexander Tries Something New and... Intimate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: Mature/Explicit (O.o)  
> Lmao how did I write 800+ words for this

It wasn't that this was the first time that Alexander had done this. It wasn't even that this was the first time Alexander had done this since coming to live in Thomas's penthouse. It was just the first time that he was doing it with the explicit, conscious intention of thinking about Thomas.

Alexander’s fingers curled around himself under the covers of his bed, and a sigh of both contentment and desire slipped past his parted lips, involuntary. He imagined that it wasn’t his own hand but Thomas's that was touching him, not his but Thomas's fingers that were dancing over his erection and creeping lower, farther back.

 _This,_ he hadn’t really done before. Of course he had been knowledgeable enough about the workings of homosexual activities, even back then, when he’d lived in the Caribbean and later when he’d served in the Continental Army, although he’d never acted upon that knowledge--at least, not to this extent. Since finding himself in modern times, though, Alexander had taken a curious liberty to look into the topic, and had been a little surprised at the relative openness of such matters (and a secret part of him had also been… _delighted_ \--at the multitude of resources and articles and _toys,_ all of them openly available--not that he had tried any of those, yet, but still).

His finger cautiously wandered around the outer edge of his hole, and he pondered briefly how it was possible that such a small opening was to be used, in effect, like a vagina during actual intercourse. _Well,_ he supposed, _the human body does work wonders._ Alexander took a breath to ready himself, then slowly pushed a finger inside, the burn of the initial breach making him grimace and clench down. It felt invasive, and even though it was his own finger, it felt foreign. But it wasn’t painful, exactly. In fact, the discomfort carried with it a peculiar sense of exhilaration.

As he painstakingly pressed the finger deeper inside, past the first knuckle and almost up to the second, Alexander again called upon his imagination: it was _Thomas's_ finger that was probing inside of him, _Thomas's_ bed that he was lying in, _Thomas's_ breath that was tickling the shell of his ear and not tendrils of his own overgrown hair. This made it better. He distantly heard the sounds he was making. His arousal had deflated from the neglect and from the unfamiliar ministrations, but now the fantasy rekindled the thrilling tightness low in his abdomen.

Alexander coated a few fingers of his free hand with saliva, not resisting the impulse to swirl his tongue over them in what he fancied an obscene manner. He allowed his lids to fall closed and envisioned Thomas’s fingers pushing the hem of his shirt up and brushing over his bare chest with feather-light flutters and finally clasping two fingers around a nipple. Slowly but steadily, the pressure increased, twisting and bending and flicking in a way that was almost experimental; his heartbeat raced, and his breathing hitched.

Eventually, when his chest felt raw from imaginary-Thomas's touch and the finger inside of him was starting to feel more sensual than intrusive, Alexander’s hand snaked downwards to wrap again around his erection. He swiped once over the head, spreading the bit of slippery fluid to reduce the bite of friction. Feeling a rush of adventurousness, in the next moment Alexander pushed two fingers in at once, too drunk on pleasure to care about the stretch and the burn.

He was gasping and panting by now, his groans unstifled and his mind overcast with a pleasant haze that obfuscated everything except his arousal and the stimulation and Thomas and Thomas and _Thomas._

The orgasm found him with his fingers buried deep inside himself and a name gusting on his lips, which was of course not Eliza or John but _Thomas._ Alexander had been so focused on the actions of what he was doing, on the spontaneity of the sensations he was feeling, that he hadn't thought ahead, and when he spilled it was out into the flimsy folds of the covers, enveloped by their soft caresses and under the darkness of winter night.

“Well, fuck,” he said breathlessly, after a while of staring up at the ceiling in the dark. As he lay there and waited for his breathing and heartbeat to settle, the reality of what he had just done sank into Alexander like a slap filmed in slow-motion.

Thomas had barely been gone three days and already Alexander was going crazy and wasn't that just fucking wonderful?

Alexander flung an arm out, flapping it around in search of the tiny table beside the bed. He yanked out a few pieces of tissue, haphazardly cleaned himself and his bed up (he’ll clean the bedsheets tomorrow, he’d decided). Just as he flopped back heavily down onto the bed with a nagging resolve to buy some lube for next time, wincing at the strangeness he felt when he inadvertently tensed his thighs--his phone rang.

_Well, fuck._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the question is this: who's calling?  
> (And the answer is Obvious.)


	21. Anything But

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, an Unexpected Visitor

“What’s up, idiot?” Alexander's grouching voice greeted Thomas from the phone. “Don't you know it’s nighttime over here?”

“Of course I do,” Thomas said.

“Then why’d you call?” Alexander asked, sounding unusually… cantankerous.

“Why not?” Thomas returned. “Were you in the middle of doing something awful?”

“Ha, no,” Alexander deadpanned. “So why did you call?”

“Wanted to make sure you haven't burned down the house yet,” Thomas said. Then, genuinely curious, “So what _were_ you doing?”

“Jerking off in bed while fantasizing about you,” Alexander said, his tone so perfectly flat that Thomas knew better than to take his words seriously.

“Hope you had fun,” Thomas said, playing along. “And clean the sheets if you got them messy, will you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alexander replied with characteristic breeziness. Thomas could hear the eyeroll that accompanied his voice. “So really. Why did you call? International service is expensive. I sincerely hope you didn't actually call to inquire whether I’ve soiled your sheets with my ‘superabundance of secretions.’”

Thomas laughed at the reference to the insult from John Adams. “No, I just wanted to check on the house and on you.”

“I wouldn't actually burn down the place, you know.”

“I know,” Jefferson agreed. “I suppose I just… miss it back there.” _And I suppose might miss you, too._

“Already?”

“Yeah.”

\---

By the end of the first week, Alexander already felt bored out of his mind. He’d finalized the manuscript of his next book and read through the books on Thomas’s shelves and even learned how to make instant noodles without burning himself or something else.

He supposed he could have called Thomas, just to alleviate some of the boredom by means of spouting complaints, but his fingers balked at the idea each time he picked up his phone, the memory of what he’d done resurfacing in his mind.

It wasn’t that he felt guilty about it, because he didn’t. It was just slightly awkward, and there was this little part of Alexander that worried he’d accidentally say something that’d be met with Thomas’s scorn or, even worse, his disgust. True, the man had allowed Alexander to kiss him and even returned the kiss, but Alexander didn’t know how far Thomas was amenable to going. To the extent of his knowledge, Thomas Jefferson hadn’t been anything _but_ straight. And even though Alexander knew--hoped--that he shouldn't _assume_ anything (as people nowadays seemed fond of saying), it was still, well, _weird._

Alexander had also gone out a few times, exalting in the velocity of Thomas’s car (now repaired, of course), but every time he’d ended up deciding against going too far; it hadn't been his first time getting shot, but nevertheless--with the shooter still not caught--he wasn't keen on repeating the experience.

The buzzer caught him by surprise, informing him of an uninvited visitor. For a moment Alexander entertained the thought that it was the shooter, dismissed it, then walked over to the screen showing footage of the building’s entrance.

He really wasn’t prepared to see who it was.

\---

“Hello…?” Alexander trailed off, not sure how to address the visitor as he opened the door for the fashionably dressed and worryingly frail-looking woman. _Mrs. Jefferson? (Eck.) Miss Wayles? Randolph?_

“Just Martha is fine,” she said pleasantly. She allowed her surprise-slash-confusion at finding Alexander here to flash across her face for a brief moment before tucking it beneath a genial smile. “May I call you Alexander?”

“Uh, sure. Come inside,” he said, stepping aside a little.

“Thank you.”

Alexander seated her and poured them each a cup of warm water.

“So you’re here too,” Alexander said.

“Yeah.” Martha didn't elaborate on her particular experience, and Alexander didn't think it fit to ask, so he didn't.

“How long?” he asked instead.

“Half a year.”

“And do you remember everything?”

She shook her head. “No, but I remember enough. I’ve got incomplete recollections from all throughout my lifetime. They don't really come to me in order.” She looked around the penthouse, eyes appraising. “So this is Thomas’s place?”

“Yeah.”

“... And you’re here because…?” She hastened to amend, “I don’t mean anything by it. It’s just, you’re an unusual choice for a living partner, considering the history that you two have had.”

Alexander shrugged, feeling slightly uncomfortable. “He found me. Sort of. And I’ve just been staying here since then.”

Martha nodded, accepting that as a perfectly reasonable explanation. “So… he’s been well?”

“Yeah. He’s off in China right now. A business trip.”

“I see.” Martha’s expression turned slightly contemplative.

“I can call him right now, if you want,” Alexander offered despite a sour feeling in his chest.

Martha shook her head, and, as if arriving at a decision, she said with some hesitation, “Can you just tell him I stopped by? And I'll leave you a number. Here--” She dug through her purse and took out a post-it note.

“I can give you _his_ number,” Alexander said.

“No, that’s fine,” she said. “I’d rather he be the one to reach out.”

“Why?”

Martha scribbled down a string of numbers and slid the piece of paper towards Alexander. “To be honest, I only came here today on impulse,” she confessed. “I don't want the decision whether to contact or not to be mine because I don't really trust myself to be--responsible enough.”

Alexander wasn’t really sure what she meant by that, but he didn't press. Instead, he nodded and said _sure, he’ll do that_ and asked Martha if she wanted anything to eat. Martha said _no, thank you, she’d better go now,_ and Alexander walked her to the door.

Stepping out, “You guys must have grown pretty close, for him to leave you here in his absence,” Martha commented, her voice betraying sincere curiosity.

Alexander lifted and lowered his shoulders in an unspoken _is that so?_ He wasn't about to tell Thomas’s ex-wife (or was she still his wife?) that he’d kissed Thomas. Twice. And also masturbated to the thought of him.

Yeah--nope.

Instead, he gave her a closed-lipped smile and said simply, “I guess.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Adams on Alexander Hamilton:
> 
> "That bastard brat of a Scottish peddler! His ambition, his restlessness and all his grandiose schemes come, I'm convinced, from a superabundance of secretions, which he couldn't find whores enough to absorb!”


	22. Of Realizations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Introspection, and Cow Tongue Pastries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, this is just me taking the opportunity to write about food

The next morning, Alexander finally called Thomas. It was nighttime over there, and Alexander estimated that by the time he called Thomas was just about to get ready for sleep.

His assumptions were confirmed when Thomas greeted him with a yawned _Hello--Alexander._

For a moment, Alexander allowed himself to revel in the sound of his name in Thomas’s mouth, the way Thomas’s tongue must have curled and tapped to produce those syllables.

“Hi, dumbass,” Alexander said, although even to his own ears the insult carried no ire.

“Did anything terrible happen? It’s the first time you’ve called me.”

_Yes. Your wife showed up out of nowhere, and I’m beginning to realize that I might want to do some less-than-innocent things with you._

“... No,” was what he said, “well, yes--I’m going insane.”

“Weren’t you already insane?”

“No, this is different--I’m going out of my mind with _boredom._ ”

Thomas chuckled, and the sound was soft and tired but real and fuck if it didn't make Alexander feel _special_ that Thomas felt comfortable enough to let him hear him like this--unguarded.

“Of course you are,” Thomas said.

“How’s it going over there?” Alexander asked. “You strike any major deals?”

“I suppose,” Thomas replied. “It’s pretty boring over here, too. The food was interesting at first, but I’m really starting to miss mac and cheese.”

Alexander snorted at that. “Of course you are,” he said, echoing Thomas’s previous words.

They both fell silent for a few seconds. It was companionable, but also somewhat perilously balanced, and it felt more than anything like the reflection of a beautiful dream on the rippling surface of a well, perhaps after an earthquake.

“Hey Thomas?” Alexander finally said.

“What?”

His resolve faltered. “... Nothing. Anyway, good night.”

“Good morning.”

“Thanks. I’m going to hang up now.”

“Okay.”

Alexander drew his finger across the screen of his phone, terminating the call. Then he dropped on his back onto the couch.

He _will_ tell Thomas about Martha, he told himself. Just not quite _yet._

\---

Thomas found himself wishing not for the first time since leaving that Alexander were with him. He missed him--missed his voice and his eyes and even his whines and complaints (and who cared what this said about him). As he gazed from his hotel room windows down at the blinking lights of Shanghai, Thomas couldn't help wondering what Alexander would have made of it--a powerful, well-developed China, when centuries ago it hadn't been much of anything, certainly not having been worth much attention nor warranting much thought.

This city, too, was at once both similar and different from New York. They were both magnificent and overcrowded, both dirty and busy. But whereas NYC seemed to have been comprised of thousands of tiny bright rectangles dotting buildings of different-sized rectangular prisms, Shanghai had incorporated more curvature and a wider variety of shapes. Thomas wanted to show Alexander the spiraling design of the Shanghai Tower and the three spheres of the Oriental Pearl Radio and Television Tower--irrationally, Thomas wanted to be the one to introduce the modern fascinations of this world to Alexander.

When had Alexander become so important to him? Thomas wondered. Or perhaps Alexander had always been important to him--even back then. How much of Thomas’s opinions have been strengthened by their disputes? How much of his identity had been built in opposition to, if not upon, the brilliant force that was Alexander?

Without thinking, Thomas touched his mouth, the action prompting recall of the warmth and feel of Alexander’s lips slotted over his, Alexander’s tongue brushing past his, Alexander’s teeth bumping against his.

And--fuck. Thomas hadn’t known himself to have ever been interested in men. What made _Alexander_ so fucking different?

Thomas took a sip of water, still looking out over the lights of Shanghai.

Maybe Alexander was right: Instead of bemoaning his past--instead of clinging desperately onto fragmented memories of his wife and his children and his sins--maybe Thomas should simply take this chance to appreciate this world and the people within.

Alexander made him feel a little like he could do it.

\---

There was truth in the saying that guilt festered like an open, uncleaned wound. All throughout the next week, Alexander was haunted by what he had failed to do. Worse, his reluctance to inform Thomas of Martha’s visit had forced him to more introspective inquiries.

 _Why_ did he not want to tell Thomas about it? Because he was afraid it would cause unwanted memories to resurface in Thomas’s mind--certainly that was part of it, but it was more like because he was afraid Thomas would get back together with Martha.

This, in turn, confirmed something else: Alexander was--sort of maybe probably--in love with Thomas, more or less, for better or worse, and it was going to be an actual pain in the ass.

\---

Almost a week of no contact from Alexander, and Thomas was unreasonably unsettled. After their last conversation about being bored, they hadn’t communicated beyond the few pictures of Shanghai scenery that Thomas would occasionally send Alexander and to which Alexander would reply with some variant of _stop bragging._

For the last week of his trip, Thomas departed from Shanghai Pudong Airport in a flight headed for the tiny island of Taiwan located beyond a narrow strait east of China. Touching down in Taoyuan International Airport, Thomas immediately connected his phone to the airport’s Wi-Fi, letting out a mental breath at finally having unrestricted access to the internet. Before Thomas had really thought about it, he’d already pulled up Alexander’s name and sent him a message telling him of his whereabouts--the action was almost instinctive.

The local time in Taiwan was three in the afternoon, and the twelve-hour time difference meant that it was three AM back in NYC. But Alexander’s reply came mere seconds later: _It_ _’s not fair that you’re having all the fun while i’m stuck here eating flavorless potato chips._

Thomas smiled as the plane shifted into position for disembarking. He tapped back a reply.

_Don’t worry I’ll bring back some pineapple cakes for you._

_Pineapple cakes?_

_Yeah, they’re one of Taiwan’s representative traditional snacks._

_Ok_

_So are moon cakes and these things called cow tongue pastries._

_Cow tongue pastries??? Wtf_

_They’re not really made from cow tongues._

_Right…_

_And iron eggs._

_Are those even edible_

_Yep._

_Weird why do you know all these foods_

_I read the in-flight catalogues._

_Ofc you did_

\---

True to his word, Thomas spent the majority of his time not dedicated to work haunting Taiwanese supermarkets, 7-11s, and small family-operated shops for delicacies to bring back. In addition to the pastries and iron eggs he’d mentioned in his messages to Alexander, Thomas bought: tea leaves (from Ali-shan), crispy dried meat (sort of like super-thin jerky), sugar and spice nougats, sun biscuits (another pastry), both Taiwanese and Japanese mochi, fruit jellies, liquor-filled chocolates, square cookies, shredded squid and fish, prawn crackers, gummy chocolate balls, milk caramel candy, dried fruits, a bunch of candy imported from nearby Japan, and a myriad of Taiwanese chips.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love food, and so of course I’m going to write about local pastries and snacks. *Searches up English names of popular snacks in Taiwan.* Also, if you’re interested, here are the snacks mentioned (they’re of course not all exclusive to Taiwan):
> 
>   * Pineapple cakes 鳳梨酥
>   * Moon cakes 月餅 (there are many, many kinds)
>   * Cow tongue pastries/cookies 牛舌餅
>   * Iron eggs 鐵蛋
>   * Ali-shan tea leaves 阿里山茶葉
>   * Crispy dried meat bakkwa/rougan 肉乾 (can be wet or dry, so not necessarily crispy)
>   * Sugar & Spice nougats 牛軋糖
>   * Sun biscuits 太陽餅
>   * Mochi 麻糬
>   * Taiwanese fruit jellies 臺灣水果果凍
>   * Liquor-filled chocolates 酒糖巧克力
>   * Square cookies 方塊酥
>   * Shredded squid/fish 魷魚絲 / 鱈魚香絲
>   * Prawn crackers 蝦餅
>   * Gummy chocolate balls 義美QQ巧克力球
>   * Milk caramel candy 牛奶糖
>   * Dried fruits 蜜餞 (sour + sweet and I like them ^^)
>   * Candy from Japan--because many Taiwanese people like Japanese things, and because the two countries are so close
>   * Chips/snacks (零食)--these are not the standard hyperbolic paraboloid shape of most potato chips (Pringles chips are representative)--they’ve got a lot of fun shapes: spirals, stars, straws, etc. (Many of the chip brands come from other nearby countries like Japan and Korea, too)
> 



	23. Sincerity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thomas Says Sappy Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* I really need to get working on my summer work for school...

Two days before his flight back to the US, Alexander called, and Thomas’s mood lit up with a smile and some mental fireworks.

“Alexander,” he said.

“Thomas,” Alexander returned. Strangely, his voice sounded… tight. Careful.

And now Thomas didn’t know what to say. Sure, he’d been looking forward to hearing Alexander’s voice, but he hadn’t specifically thought about what he wanted to talk to him about. For lack of any better ideas, Thomas said, “How have you been?”

“Bored,” Alexander replied without any hint of hesitation.

“Is that why you called me?”

“... Yes--no.” It sounded like resignation.

Thomas was confused. Worried. “Is something the matter?”

The silence from Alexander’s end felt longer than it probably was; Thomas’s dread grew in tiny but steady increments.

“Alexander?”

“Well…” Alexander finally began. “So your wife Martha dropped by and I asked her if she wanted me to call you or if she wanted your number but she said no and gave me her number and told me to tell you that she dropped by and probably give you her number and--”

“Wait a sec, Alexander. You’re rambling,” Thomas said. “And it’s painfully run-on.”

“And I know I probably should’ve told you about it the last time I called but you’d only been one week into your trip and--”

“Calm down. It’s _fine,_ ” Thomas interrupted again. And it _was_ fine--which was possibly significant in some way, Thomas thought distractedly. “I’m not going to be mad about it--”

“Why _not?_ ” Alexander asked, a strange obstinacy in his voice.

“I don't know,” Thomas said truthfully. “But it’s really no big deal, Alexander. And you’re right--which, of course you are--it wouldn’t have been good for me to just run back in the middle of my trip.”

Another bout of silence from the other end, during which Thomas took a peculiar comfort in the faint, steady sounds of Alexander's breaths.

“... So what are you going to do?” Alexander asked.

“Well, there are only two more days left before I leave, so I suppose I’m just going to adhere to my original schedule. I’ll contact Martha once I get back, and probably meet with her sometime.”

“I see.”

“So how about you? What have you been doing, besides being bored?”

“Eating, sleeping, defecating--”

“Pretend I never asked.”

\---

TOP STORIES

> _At least 4 dead, 6 injured in shooting_

> _On America’s economy: Disaster disguised as prosperity, guest writer argues_

> _Orphanage reports runaway children_

> _Better nutrition, according to science  
>  _

> _American woman finds Venezuelan father 33 years after birth  
>  _

> _Expert reveals how to travel smart  
>  _

\---

Thomas had been away from home before--multiple times, including back when he’d lived in Monticello--but he’d never been so _glad_ to be home.

Alexander had insisted on picking him up from the airport, despite the late hour and even though Thomas had made it clear that he would have been _perfectly fine_ riding the subway.

(It would have been a lie to say that Thomas didn't feel a secret warmth at Alexander’s stubborn offer.)

The moment Thomas had spotted the man in the airport, hair slightly but noticeably longer and ostentatiously unkempt, the fatigue of the fifteen-hour flight had seemed to retreat behind a firm curtain of relief. Alexander had been dressed in one of the shirts they had bought on that shopping trip which had ended with Alexander getting shot. Thomas remembered it because it was the only one of his suggestions that Alexander had agreed to buying, and at the sight of it then, the way the fabric had draped loosely over Alexander’s shoulders, the faint wrinkles which must have happened when Alexander had worn it to sleep or at least to take a nap--Thomas had felt a timid, clumsy fluttering in his chest, not unlike a baby bird faced with her first attempt at flying.

“Nice shirt,” Thomas had commented as he walked up to Alexander, smirking.

“ _You_ would think that,” Alexander had retorted while Thomas took in the almost manic brightness in his eyes.

“I would,” Thomas had agreed good-naturedly, giddy to be once again in Alexander’s presence.

Alexander had pretended to inspect the shirt, pinching at the cloth with his thumb and forefinger and rubbing at it with a feigned frown. “I think the color’s a bit garish. Too gaudy, you know?”

"What are you even talking about? The color brings out your _eyes_ and complements your _hair_ \--”

“You sound like a fucking saleslady,” Alexander had broken in. “If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought that you were being sarcastic.”

“Well, I’m _not._ You have beautiful eyes. And hair.” Thomas had reached out and fluffed his fingers through Alexander’s hair.

Alexander was still for only a few seconds before he’d leaned back, disentangling his hair from Thomas’s fingers. “Uhuh,” he said.

“What? I’m being _sincere,_ ” Thomas had protested, reaching out again, only to have his movements once again evaded.

“I know,” Alexander had replied blithely. “That’s what makes it _weird,_ you idiot.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (And we all know who the "guest writer" is...)


	24. If He So Wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, a Road Trip--Kind Of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I just watched _Christopher Robin_ the movie and it was great.  
>  Winnie the Pooh is a-dor+a-ble.

“I called Martha,” Thomas casually informed Alexander the following morning, over breakfast.

Alexander made a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement, feeling an unwelcome, astringent taste wafting in his mouth.

“I’m meeting her in DC tomorrow morning, so I’m going to leave this afternoon and spend the night at a hotel.”

“Mmhm,” Alexander said. Then he asked with sincere concern, “Are you sure you’re not too tired? You just got back.”

An obnoxious, endearing smirk snaked onto Thomas’s face. “You worried about me?”

“Obviously,” Alexander said crossly. “I don’t want you to get into a car crash.”

“Then,” Thomas said, his smirk reconfiguring into a small smile (which seemed very kissable, but Alexander tried to banish that thought), “do you want to come with me?”

\---

“Alexander, what’s in your backpack?”

“Snacks--by the way, those chips you brought back are absolutely delightful. Water. Phone. Laptop. Books.”

“What’s in your suitcase?”

“Clothes and books.”

“...”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“How many books did you bring, Alexander?”

“Seven.”

“We’re going away for _two days--_ ”

“Two and a half.”

“--whatever. You don’t need _seven books._ ”

“Yes I do. They’re all new books I’ve just gotten and haven’t read.”

“But you won’t have _time_ to read.”

“Yes I will. I’m going to read in the car and while you go meet Martha. Plus--how many outfits did _you_ bring?”

“... Six?”

“We’re going away for _two point five days,_ ” Alexander mimicked Thomas, “you don’t need _six outfits._ ”

Thomas sighed, Alexander smiled victoriously, and they lobbed their stuff in the trunk and got in the car.

\---

Thomas drove for the most part--he still didn't trust Alexander enough with the wheels, and letting him drive and worrying over it would probably end up being more tiring than simply driving himself.

Like he’d said he would, Alexander spent most of the car ride reading, annotating the margins with a blue pen that eventually ran out of ink. He also opened a few bags of snacks, which he occasionally fed Thomas, and the act was undeniably _sweet_ and possibly one of Alexander’s most considerate moments.

By the time they arrived at the hotel, the sky was a developed shade of dark. They checked in and went up to their room, a two-bed suite on the twelfth floor.

They took turns showering, and afterwards, Thomas flopped onto his bed (near the door, because of course Alexander had called dibs on the window-side bed). He was exhausted, from the drive and jet lag, and he felt like the moment he closed his eyes he’d be asleep.

Alexander, on the other hand, seemed to be the same flurry of energy he always was. Which was not surprising, Thomas thought. _Considering that the man had neither driven for five hours straight nor just returned from halfway across the globe._

“Thomas, look at this--read it. The argument is awful!” Alexander was blabbering as he hoisted himself up onto Thomas’s bed without permission, shoving the open pages of a book before Thomas’s eyes.

“Whatever,” Thomas mumbled. “I’m like, bone-deep tired.”

Alexander took a moment to untangle his thoughts from the book and process Thomas’s words. Slowly, he shut the book and tossed it carelessly into the open slot of his unzipped backpack. It barely missed, and lodged itself on one of the ridges of the pockets on the outer surface of the backpack. He turned back to Thomas, eyes alight with an intention that made Thomas feel both delighted and wary.

Alexander brought their faces closer so that their foreheads touch and the ridges of their noses brushed against each other, so that Alexander's breathing ghosted over Thomas’s mouth, and so that Thomas could count Alexander’s eyelashes, if he so wished to.

Alexander’s lips parted, and Thomas allowed his lids to fall almost halfway closed, waiting for the pressure of soft lips upon his own.

But Alexander didn’t seal their lips. Thomas forced open his eyes, his mouth moving to form a wordless, unplanned question but falling still at the complicated knot of emotions in Alexander’s eyes: frustration and uncertainty and indignation.

Their eyes met and locked for a few long seconds, before Alexander seemed to breathe out a dejected sigh and began pulling back. Confused and tired and in the throes of the moment, Thomas’s hands shot out to land on Alexander’s shoulders, holding him in place mere inches away. There was a fleeting pause during which he attempted to sort out his own thoughts and assess the situation clearly, but which evidently failed in its purpose when, in the next instant, Thomas brought their faces together and caught Alexander’s lips with his own.

Alexander responded with vigor, his mouth like the rest of him: forceful and urgent. Thomas allowed himself to give in to the momentum of it, leaning backwards into the pillows and taking Alexander with him. Thomas’s fingers crept up into Alexander’s hair, resting and pressing on his scalp, pulling him closer. The weight of Alexander’s body over his was comforting, steadying.

With the pillows behind Thomas’s head, Alexander was the one to finally pull back and end the kiss. Thomas took in the sight of him, hair disheveled, lips red and parted, eyes wide and housing a tiny reflection of Thomas’s own rakish state.

“I was right,” Thomas whispered.

“About what?” Alexander asked.

“You hair, your eyes--they’re beautiful,” Thomas said, weaving a streak of hair over his knuckles. “Especially right now. Like this.”

Alexander’s eyes seemed to flash with playfulness. “Like what?”

Thomas traced a finger lightly over Alexander’s lips. “ _Debauched._ ”

Alexander flushed and, unable to come up with a satisfactory retort, rolled over, prepared to get off Thomas’s bed, but Thomas wrapped his fingers around Alexander’s wrist.

Alexander shot him a questioning look.

Thomas tried not to think too much about the words that spilled out of his mouth even as his eyelids dropped heavily with sleep. He patted his bed--“Sleep here. It’s cold.”

\---

Alexander woke up flung out on Thomas’s bed, lying on his stomach, alone. The lack of lingering warmth on Thomas’s side of the bed informed Alexander that he had probably left a good while ago.

Alexander pushed himself off the bed and, glancing around, grabbed his phone from the bedside table. Thomas had sent him a few messages at seven, which was… let’s see, about three-point-five hours ago.

 _I tried waking you but you were impossible._  
_You can get food in the hotel building, they have quite a few restaurants._  
_Not sure when I’ll get back._

Alexander changed and, book and phone in hand, stepped out of the hotel room in search of food. He wondered what Thomas and Martha were doing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas is bad at coming up with excuses (he just wanted to cuddle).


	25. He Knows That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martha Helps Thomas (Out of the Closet)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foot.

Seeing Martha again sent contradictory feelings skittering through Thomas. He was of course glad to see her; he had loved her, once, but, as he was beginning to realize, perhaps no longer. Regardless, he was happy to see her, alive, and--though worryingly thin--standing on her own feet, by herself.

But another part of him was awash in fear and anxiety and guilt, because she’d been his wife and he couldn’t save her and after her death he’d polluted her memory with other women. And also because she’d experienced firsthand his estate and his aristocracy and his slaves, and she had been a prime witness to his hypocrisy.

“It’s… good to see you, Martha.”

His former wife smiled, and it was genuine--Thomas was surprised and a little relieved to know that he could still tell.

“It’s great to see you too, Thomas. You look like you did when we first met.”

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” Thomas replied.

Martha laughed. “Really,” she said. “Because I’ve been told I look like I’d be blown away by a gust of wind.”

“Well, you do,” Thomas admitted. “But I assume it’s just a faulty impression.”

They ordered warm drinks and some waffles from the café menu, the routine of modern normalcy serving to procrastinate the inevitable discussion. Thomas found the situation fascinating--human relation really was complicated.

Martha took the initiative. “So how have you been?”

“Pretty well, now. Though I get terrible headaches every now and then from memories.”

Martha nodded. “You’ve got a wonderful place.”

“Thanks. And how have _you_ been?” Thomas asked.

“Not too shabby myself,” Martha answered. “I’ve got an apartment with a roommate here in Washington DC.”

“A roommate?”

“Yes. She helped me when I first… got here.”

They paused in their conversation to each take a bite of the plates of waffles that were set down onto the table.

Soon, though, Martha dove back in. “So what’s up with Alexander?”

The fork in Thomas’s hand stilled, and when he spoke it was carefully--“... What do you mean?”

“I find it hard to believe that you guys are able to coexist peacefully under the same roof.”

“Actually,” Thomas said, “so do I, sometimes.”

“But?”

A rueful smile found its way to Thomas’s face at how well Martha could still read him. “But it’s just happened and, weirdly, it seems to… work.”

“What about all of your ideological differences?”

“Oh, those are still ubiquitous,” Thomas said easily. “We argue all the time, but--maybe it’s because neither of us are directly involved in politics now--but the arguments are kind of enjoyable. And sometimes we even agree. Alexander can be… brilliant,” Thomas admitted at last.

Something twinkled in Martha’s eyes. A curious, amused puzzlement. “Brilliant?”

So Thomas told her about his exasperating, ingenious housemate--about the overheated laptop, the almost constant whining, the nightmare that was Alexander’s driving. Thomas told her random details about Alexander (which he found secretly endearing, and though he didn’t say that, he thought Martha probably knew anyway): the way Alexander would read the bibliography of books; his muttered complaints about coffee being too bitter, yet how he’d refused to spare the time to add some sugar ( _I’m too busy,_ he’d claimed); how Alexander’s eyes had lit up with unadulterated wonder at Rockefeller Center’s Christmas decorations; his attachment to--no, obsession with--words and _thinking_ and ideas…

Thomas almost included Alexander’s tendency to hog all the blankets in his sleep (Thomas had woken up that morning robbed clean of any insulation), but thankfully prevented himself from mentioning it--it was guaranteed to precipitate some questions, which Thomas didn’t think he’d be able to answer.

“Thomas,” Martha said after Thomas had declared that he was done. Her tone was strangely serious.

“Hm?”

“Do you… How do you feel about Alexander?”

Thomas stiffened. So the question was finally asked, anyway. After a few halting moments (during which his mouth opened and attempted to form words, but failed to produce sound), Thomas said, “I suppose I enjoy his presence.”

“And?” Martha prodded, unrelenting.

“ _Aaand._ I suppose I might care about him.”

“Romantically?”

“I--no!” Thomas refuted instinctively. “He’s a _man._ ”

“So?”

“I truly loved you,” Thomas said earnestly, as if trying to persuade them both of something but not sure what.

Martha’s smile was nothing short of reassuring. “I don’t doubt that,” she said. “But just because you’ve only been with women doesn’t necessarily mean you can’t fall for a man.”

“I haven’t _fallen for_ Alexander--”

“Thomas, you said ‘loved,’ not ‘love.’”

“What?”

“You said you truly _loved_ me.” When Thomas opened his mouth and looked like he was about to protest, to perhaps take back his words and replace them with something less than a hundred percent true, Martha hurriedly added, “And I know that and I’m happy that you did. But it was in the past, a really distant past, and I wouldn’t expect you to still feel the same way _now._ ”

“Martha, I--” Thomas began, but then realized that he didn’t know how to reply. “I don’t--Are we--friends, still, at least?”

“Of course we are,” Martha said, and Thomas let out a breath of relief. At the sight of it, Martha smiled mischievously. “So spill. Are you in love with Alexander?”

“I--might be?” Thomas’s shoulders slumped. “Oh god, this is terrible.”

“Terrible? Why?”

“Because how can I--because Alexander is a _brat_ and he’s _insufferable_ and he _hates_  how I was back then as Thomas Jefferson.”

“Like I said, that was a really distant past,” Martha reasoned. “Alexander knows that, too.”

And Thomas told her. His memories and the preceding headaches. Alexander getting shot. Their kisses, always fading away undiscussed. It felt nice, to finally be able to talk about this, and at the same time it felt terrifying, because this was _Alexander,_ and they should hate each other (but they didn’t seem to be), and the entire situation was over fifty percent composed of disaster and vexation.

 

 


	26. Heartless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alexander Tries to Be Magnanimous

When Alexander heard the click of the hotel room door being unlocked, it was eleven twenty-seven and he’d been waiting for it for an entire afternoon and evening, sitting anything but still on Thomas’s bed--the one closer to the door. _Fuck him,_ he thought, glaring at the door as it swiveled slowly open and Thomas stepped inside.

But as Thomas turned to check that the door had locked behind him, Alexander processed the fact that Thomas was back here--instead of staying the night with Martha somewhere, as Alexander had bitterly concluded when the sky had turned dark and Thomas still hadn’t come back.

Now, Thomas was wearing a small, relaxed smile, as if he’d found the solution to a problem he’d been pondering for a long time--as if _Martha_ had been the answer.

Alexander had been afraid last night--it was why he had started to pull back, before _Thomas_ had kissed _him._ He was afraid now--he didn’t want to hear Thomas talk about Martha, didn’t want to see his eyes light up or his lips curve at the thought of her.

Nevertheless, Alexander squeezed out a smile. He didn’t usually mind being a pain in the ass or an obnoxious twat, but right now, he didn’t want Thomas to think he was petty. “Congratulations,” he said, voice weak.

Thomas turned to him, his happy expression morphing in to one of confusion. “What?”

Alexander crossed his arms over his chest in a futile attempt to assuage the tightness building within. “Don’t be so surprised. I can be nice, too.”

“I know that. But--what for? Did something happen?” Thomas asked as he pulled a chair near the bed and sat down.

“Why are you asking _me?_ Didn’t you and Martha”--Alexander swallowed--“didn’t you guys reconcile?”

“We did,” Thomas said, and Alexander thought his heart ached. He pretended to read his book.

“But why--” A realization seemed to dawn on Thomas. “ _Oh._ No--we didn’t--it wasn’t like _that,_ ” Thomas amended hastily.

It was Alexander’s turn to be confused. What was Thomas _talking about?_ His facial expression must have conveyed as much, judging by Thomas’s next words.

“We did have a reconciliation, but we didn’t--we didn’t _get back together._ We just both agreed to remain good _friends._ ”

 _Oh._ Somehow, hearing that made Alexander’s chest simultaneously grow tighter and loosen with relief. Still, petulantly--“ _Why?_ Isn’t she your _wife?_ ”

Thomas scooted to the edge of his chair, moving closer to Alexander. The glint in his gaze was playful, almost. “She _was,_ ” he agreed with slight modification, “but not any _more._ ”

“Why _not?_ ”

“Well, you know, it’s been a while and the past is in the past--”

“Oh my god. Don’t fucking quote _Frozen_ to me.”

“--and she knows,” Thomas finished. “And I wasn’t trying to quote _Frozen,_ for your information.”

“Knows… what, exactly?”

And hope was a terrible, terrific thing, because if done wrong it could squash you into nonexistence with disappointment. It was insubstantial, intangible, indispensable, and Alexander knew all that and more because Alexander wasn’t stupid. Alexander was just, at the moment, helplessly hopeful.

Thomas averted his eyes for a split second before he seemed to steel himself and met Alexander’s gaze, something akin to sincerity pooled in his expression.

“That I, um, have feelings for you,” he said.

Although Alexander tried his best to hide the stutter in his breathing, he knew he had not entirely succeeded. He probably made a funny picture, he thought, staring wide-eyed back at Thomas, for once not knowing what to say.

“... Alexander?” Thomas ventured, his tone uncertain, the syllables tremulous. Panic flew an arc across his eyes when Alexander still remained speechless. “I--It’s fine if you don’t feel the same way. I just thought--the kisses. And I just--Fuck. What was I thinking? You probably hate me still. I know _I_ would--”

 _The man is positively distressed,_ Alexander’s brain chided. _Look at what you’ve done._

So Alexander did what he had done before. Leaning forward, he caught Thomas’s ramblings with his lips, felt the man stiffen in surprise then sag in contented relief. Alexander placed his hands on the back of Thomas’s neck, his fingers stroking the hair growing just above his nape. Thomas seemed caught between pressing into his mouth and into his touch, so Alexander clasped him closer.

When Alexander pulled away, Thomas’s words spilled with a ghostly breath onto his lips--“Thank god.”

Alexander shook his head, having finally regained the ability to communicate orally. “Idiot. You’re a fucking idiot. I can’t believe you talked to your wife about this,” he mused.

“ _Former_ wife,” Thomas corrected diligently. “And she asked.”

“Right,” Alexander said. “And just so you know, if me snogging you just now hadn’t made it clear enough--I’m pretty enamored with you, too.”

Thomas barked a laugh. “Of course you’d use the word ‘enamored.’”

“At least it’s better than what _you_ said,” Alexander retorted. “You just said you had ‘feelings’ for me--like, _what_ feelings?"

Thomas kissed him pointedly. “ _This_ kind of feelings,” he said afterwards.

Alexander whined at the loss of contact. He reached out to pull Thomas back, but Thomas took hold of his wrists and said, heartlessly, “I’m going to shower.”

Alexander pouted. “Fuck you,” he called out to Thomas’s back as the man headed for the bathroom.

\---

“So why did you get back so _late?_ ” Alexander asked the moment Thomas stepped out with a towel slung around his neck, hair wet.

“Martha took me sightseeing,” Thomas said.

“Where did you go?”

“A bunch of museums, actually. Air and Space, Holocaust, National Archives--”

Alexander cut in excitedly. “National Archives. Take me to that one.”

And of course Thomas agreed.

\---

“Well, this is a nice development,” Thomas remarked as they lay in bed beside each other, Alexander having magnanimously agreed to not read until four AM that night. Their fingers were touching beneath the covers--Alexander’s were cold and Thomas’s were warm. Alexander was curled up on his side against Thomas, seeking a warmth that was more than merely physical.

“How so?” Alexander murmured, lips brushing against Thomas’s earlobe.

“Now we don’t need two-bed hotel rooms.”

“We didn’t need two-bed hotel rooms this time,” Alexander said. “You made me sleep in your bed last night anyway.”

“Because it was cold,” Thomas replied. He knew that they both knew his words were bullshit.

“Yeah, right.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some strange reason (or maybe not so strange), Alexander is up-to-date in regards to pop culture and knows _Frozen._
> 
> Also, there's this part of me that wishes I had it in me to break them apart...


	27. This Part of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which We Revisit a Moral Dilemma

“So you know how when you were in the hospital after you were shot, and I told you I’ve been told I kiss well, and you asked me by whom?” Thomas asked a week later, as they were eating lunch (shell noodles and cheese, because Thomas couldn’t find any macaroni).

Alexander’s spoon paused mid-air. “Yes.”

“And then you said never mind.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Slowly, Alexander lowered his spoon into his bowl. “Because,” he began hesitantly, “I was thinking, what if you said Martha and then felt all melancholic? Or worse--What if you said Sally Hemings and the entire situation became painfully awkward?”

Thomas took a moment to process that, the mention of Sally Hemings reminding him of the heavy weight dragging in his conscience like an anchor stuck under a rock. Finally, he donned a smile and tried for a light tone. “I still haven’t remembered anything beyond age forty, remember?”

Alexander sighed. “But it’s a matter of time before you do, isn’t it? Before you remember everything.”

Thomas said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Alexander said.

“... It’s not your fault.”

Alexander went around and hugged Thomas from the back. “Thomas. When you remember, I’ll be by your side. I promise.”

Thomas shook his head forlornly. “What if I remember that I’d done something really horrible? You’re going to  _ hate _ me.”

Alexander kissed Thomas’s earlobe, nibbling lightly, and Thomas found the sensation to be slightly soothing.

“I’ll hate what you did back then,” Alexander agreed. “That’s a promise. But I hold the opinion that you shouldn’t let your past define who you are. Please hold on to your current self. Believe that this new part of you, the part of you that was born when you woke up on a subway train and found yourself  _ here, _ the part that cares about safe driving and remembered my birthday when  _ I _ forgot--believe that  _ that _ part of you is strong enough. Don’t let Thomas Jefferson, Slave Owner and Hypocrite Extraordinaire, wash you away.”

“Because the you right now? Thomas--it might sound weird--but I think you’re a good person.” There was a pause, then--“Though, you  _ do  _ know that your relationship with Sally Hemings is still a controversy, right? There’s no conclusive, irrefutable evidence out there to say that you actually fathered any of her children.”

“I know,” Thomas said. “But every time I think about the arguments that hold that I probably  _ didn’t _ coerce her into a relationship, it just--it feels like false hope. Self-justification. Even if I really didn’t, I was still a slave owner, still a perpetrator of human trafficking, stripping people of their freedom. I’m despicable.”

“You  _ were _ despicable,” Alexander corrected. “You  _ aren’t,  _ and I trust that you  _ won’t _ choose to be despicable. And, ah--you remember how I called you a bunch of bad things and you told me to stop being a thesaurus? I’m actually sorry about that. You gave me a place to stay, gave me water and food, and I reciprocated by insulting you with a shitload of unfounded accusations--and I apologize for that.”

Thomas snorted. “You don’t have to apologize. I  _ was  _ a hypocrite who undermined my own principles.”

“Yeah, but the Sally Hemings part was needlessly hurtful. I didn’t really know enough about the entire affair to be slinging insults. Funny thing is, though, two hundred years later I still know nothing about what really happened, and turns out neither do you.”

“And that’s probably a good thing,” Thomas muttered.

 

 


	28. Dinner for Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Another Birthday Is Celebrated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is literally fluff lmao

Alexander had made it a point to learn Thomas’s birthday after Thomas had gotten him that cake for his birthday, which was how he found himself trying to persuade Thomas to buy decorative balloons.

“ _Why?_ ” Thomas asked incredulously.

“They’re _cool,_ ” Alexander said. “I’ve never seen rubber balloons before.”

“You’re like a little kid,” Thomas responded. “Fine. You can buy a pack-- _one pack._ And I’m throwing them away the moment you start popping them in the house.”

“Okay, okay. And I also want candy.”

Thomas made a face, but pushed the cart towards the candy aisle.

\---

It was the morning of Thomas’s birthday, and Alexander was asking strange questions.

“Why are you dressed in a suit?”

“I have a few meetings today.”

“When will you be back?”

Thomas shrugged. Meetings could be unpredictable. “Around six thirty, if things go according to plan.”

Alexander nodded, and Thomas recognized in his eyes the gleam of planning and calculation.

Truthfully, Thomas had an inkling that Alexander was planning something for his birthday--the balloons were compelling evidence. And the way Alexander seemed to purposefully angle the screen of his laptop or phone away from Thomas’s eyes whenever they were in the same room. Or how he had taken up wandering around in the kitchen whenever Thomas was cooking.

All in all, it was sweet, and Thomas had decided not to pop his bubble of secrecy.

“Okay,” Alexander said, then echoed, as if to etch it into his memory, “six thirty.”

As Thomas opened the door to leave, Alexander kissed him goodbye--just a peck on the cheek, since the man was too engrossed in his thoughts. Thomas didn’t mind.

\---

More because he knew that Alexander had something planned and less because it was his birthday, Thomas was understandably pissed when, around five o’clock, he received a phone call asking him to attend a meeting that had been moved from next week to today at seven thirty, because the meeting’s other attendee had an emergency trip to make and would be leaving tomorrow morning.

If she’d been an ordinary client, Thomas wouldn’t have batted a lash at telling her _no, I’m afraid I can’t move our meeting up_ and _could you schedule a later meeting?_ But she wasn’t just another ordinary client--she wasn’t really a client at all; she was more like his boss.

So Thomas sighed and texted Alexander _sorry,_ he was probably going to be home later than expected, and _don’t wait up if it gets to be too late._

\---

To say that Alexander was _fine_ with Thomas working late wouldn’t be a lie, but neither would it be the complete truth. Alexander gnawed at his nails as he stood in the kitchen, his eyes surveying his handiwork.

He’d spent the entire day blowing up balloons (because Thomas had said a heartless _no_ to buying a balloon pump), attaching them stylistically around the house along with other paper-cut decorations, and--cooking.

To be fair, the dishes on the table right now had taken no more than two hours to prepare, so really what Alexander had been doing prior to that was _attempting_ to cook. There was still a faint reminiscence of charred cheese and bread wafting in the air, despite the penthouse’s excellent circulation, and Alexander had had to go downstairs to throw away his failed attempts in the building’s dumpsters. Not to mention the current dearth of food in the cupboards and the fridge--Alexander hadn’t really meant to fail quite that many times.

So of course he couldn’t help feeling disappointed at Thomas’s lateness--because, hello, it was the man’s damn birthday, why was he working overtime? But Alexander would like to think that he wasn’t an illogical person, and he knew that Thomas wasn’t one, either, and that he probably wouldn’t have agreed to working late unless it was important.

In the end, Alexander tapped a slow _okay_ in response to Thomas’s message.

\---

It was almost twelve by the time Thomas unlocked the door to his penthouse and stepped inside. He was tired, vexed, and he felt guilty, because he’d told Alexander _six thirty_ and then told him he had an emergency meeting at _seven thirty_ but now it was fucking _midnight._ He’d been dragged to dinner then to a bar, forced to meet people he didn’t give any shit about, and if he could’ve just gotten up and left he would have done it, zero fucks given.

But the world liked to make Thomas struggle and watch him squirm--that was his theory, at least.

Now, Thomas was greeted with lavishly strung balloons, a table of food--had Alexander _made_ all this?--and Alexander, asleep with his head on the edge of the table. Thomas’s heart swelled with a warmth that made it harder to breathe, made him swallow, made his ire from work melt and evaporate. He couldn’t exactly fathom how Alexander had managed to _make proper food,_ because the last time Thomas had seen him try, explosions had happened--but the dishes sitting on the table right now, long chilled, looked more than edible.

Guilt shot through Thomas once more. Alexander had prepared all this, only for Thomas to ruin it all. Bitter with himself, Thomas set down his stuff and approached the sleeping man.

“Alexander?” he called out quietly, tapping lightly on Alexander’s shoulder, not wanting to startle him. When Alexander did not stir, Thomas gently picked him up--it was a good thing that Alexander wasn’t too heavy. It was a testament to how tired he must have been that Alexander’s eyes remained lidded and his breathing even as Thomas tucked him in bed.

“Thank you,” Thomas said quietly.

He padded back out to the kitchen and made quick work clearing the table and putting things in the fridge (which was noticeably emptier than it’d been this morning, Thomas observed with amusement). Thomas left the balloons up--it was sort of cute, and he didn’t want to dismantle Alexander’s handiwork quite yet, before they’d even had the chance to admire the atmosphere together.

After taking a quick shower, Thomas slipped carefully into bed beside Alexander (it’d become normal, them sleeping together). He shuffled closer and pressed a soft, quick kiss to Alexander’s forehead. A whispered _good night._

\---

 _Damn it,_ Alexander thought as he opened his eyes. He’d fallen asleep. He was in bed, which meant that Thomas must have carried him from the kitchen last night after he’d come home… Speaking of which--Alexander turned to find Thomas beside him, eyes open and trained on Alexander, bed hair adorning his head.

“Good morning,” Thomas said, voice slightly hoarse from sleep.

“Morning,” Alexander murmured back. “Sorry I fell asleep. When did you get back?”

“A little before twelve, and you’re not the one who should be apologizing,” Thomas answered, and Alexander could see the guilt clear in his eyes. “I’m sorry I was so late.”

Alexander smiled impishly. “That’s why you should totally make it up to me.”

Thomas quirked an eyebrow. Tone questioning, he asked, “Make it up to you? How?”

Alexander pushed himself up and rolled over so that he effectively straddled Thomas, their relative positions too suggestive to be unintentional. Alexander’s smile widened as he looked down at Thomas, who blinked at first, then widened his eyes when Alexander shifted on top of him in a movement just short of rolling his hips.

“What are you--Do you want--?” Thomas began haltingly, seemingly unable to find a satisfactory finish to his questions.

“Sure I do,” Alexander replied readily, delighting in the way Thomas blushed and the bob in his throat as he swallowed. “But not right now,” Alexander amended. He leaned down and kissed Thomas quickly, lightly on the mouth and then got off the bed, waiting expectantly for Thomas to do the same.

Alexander dragged him to the kitchen and firmly pushed him down onto a chair. “First, we’re going to have dinner for breakfast.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rubber balloons were invented by Michael Faraday in 1824, during experiments with various gases.
> 
> Thomas Jefferson's birthday: April 13, 1743.


	29. Relation d'Amour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Lafayette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys uh. Idk how to capitalize titles in French.  
>  _Je vois_ : "I see."

Lafayette appeared without prior notice a few days later, bearing himself and a suitcase of presents.

“I apologize, _mon ami,_ for not showing up earlier for your actual birthday,” the Frenchman said to Thomas. Then, directing his attention to Alexander--upon initial sight of whom he’d widened his eyes and gasped dramatically--he all but exclaimed, “And what a surprise _magnifique_ it is to see you here, mon petit lion. Living with Thomas, too--I would not have thought it possible.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” Alexander replied, pulling Lafayette into a quick hug.

“Thank you, Lafayette. I’m very glad you came, but really? _Twelve presents?_ You’re aware that only one birthday of mine has passed since you last saw me, yes?”

“Of course I am aware,” Lafayette said breezily. “But who does not like presents? Presents are great.”

“But you didn’t get _me_ anything for my birthday,” Alexander pointed out slightly sullenly.

“That was because I had not known of your existence, Alex. If I had, I would have certainly dropped by to help you celebrate!” As he finished speaking, Lafayette squinted his eyes and seemed to be scrutinizing Thomas and Alexander, as if trying to decrypt some sort of cipher with his vision.

“Why didn’t you tell him about me being here?” Alexander asked Thomas.

Thomas shrugged. “Lafayette and I don’t really communicate with each other all that often, and you showing up seemed like too big a news to send through electronic messages.”

Lafayette leaned towards Alexander in a wide, theatrical flourish. “I think,” he began, “Thomas here simply sought to _keep you to himself--_ ”

At which, Thomas interrupted by coughing. “It simply didn’t seem that _pressing._ ”

“ _Non,_ Thomas, _mon petit lion_ here is a _huge_ deal--”

“Sure,” Thomas said, tone too light to be sincere. Then, steering the conversation in a decidedly different direction, he asked whether Lafayette wanted some coffee ( _yes_ ) and about his preferences ( _lots of sugar and cream_ ).

As they sat there and talked and joked like normal friends of this era (and not those of a few centuries prior), Alexander felt an unexpected joy bubbling within him. Here, he didn’t feel out of place--which was funny in a weird way, considering he was sitting beside Thomas and they used to hate what each other stood for, if not each other’s person. Even Lafayette seemed to find the situation more than a little odd, as his eyes kept flitting between the two of them, situated almost snugly on the couch. Finally, Lafayette’s gaze landed on their hands: touching--an acceptance of each other’s presence and a hint of something more subtle.

(They hadn’t told Lafayette of it, this relationship that they had. Even to them, it was yet unnamed.)

“I have been wondering,” Lafayette said, tone pleasantly neutral--polite, even, in stark contrast with his next words--“whether you guys have been fucking, and if so, for how long?”

Thomas choked on his coffee, Alexander burst out laughing, and Lafayette regarded them both with narrowed eyes.

“No,” Thomas managed between coughs.

“We haven’t,” Alexander agreed.

“But you will?” Lafayette asked.

Thomas attempted to hide behind a sip of coffee, his voice barely a mumble. “I, ah--that is, we’re not--I mean. Maybe--I don’t know,” he concluded.

Unable to obtain an adequate answer from Thomas, Lafayette turned expectantly to Alexander.

“I am amenable to it,” Alexander said easily, beyond anything else finding the entire situation amusing.

(Meanwhile, Thomas gaped.)

“ _Je vois._ ” Lafayette appeared thoughtful. “I merely am curious how this _relation d’amour_ has come about between the two of you.”

“Sometimes, so am I,” Alexander replied.

\---

Lafayette had not visited solely for Thomas’s birthday greetings, and therefore declined his offer to stay at the penthouse.

“Furthermore, I do not wish to get in the way of your nightly activities,” the Frenchman said.

“You wouldn’t be--” Thomas protested at the same time Alexander’s lips quirked into a smirk and he said, “Good thinking.” Thomas shot him a look that could best be described as _scandalized,_ to which Alexander returned an insolent wink.

Lafayette chuckled, and pulled them both in for a quick hug. “ _Je suis vraiment heureux de vous revoir tous les deux._ ”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Je suis vraiment heureux de vous revoir tous les deux._  
>  "I'm really glad to see you both again."


	30. It's Not Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which There Are Fireworks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was little I burned myself with some handheld fireworks--the wound was small but it looked really strange.

Alexander knew he would never forget his first Fourth of July in the modern world. He was stunned by the level of festivities and the large number of participants in numerous parades across the country, by the patriotic aesthetic of the decorations and present in people’s attires. _Americans nowadays sure do love any excuse to celebrate,_ Alexander thought with an involuntary fondness. He loved this country, and even if these people only loved it for it being an excuse to party--well, then, at least they still loved it.

He knew Thomas felt it, too--this shadowing sense of reassurance, of being disburdened despite a messed-up political climate--he’d had a hand in the forging of this nation, after all.

They didn’t join in on any parades, but Thomas did make some macaroni and cheese with star-shaped pasta. When Alexander had sat down before the table and seen what was awaiting him, he’d rolled his eyes but left his smile unsmothered.

Now, just as the summer sky was beginning to dim, Alexander dragged Thomas out. He’d made Thomas buy some handheld fireworks; now he wanted to light them.

They went to East River State Park, where entire families have migrated for the evening with jumbo picnic blankets and boxes of food, where groups of young people dressed brazenly loitered with cigarettes balanced between their fingers; lit, unlit.

They were, of course, not the only ones planning to play with miniature explosions. All about them flitted little kids and pairs of lovers with wands of sparking embers, chattering and giggling and screeching as they held up their little gunpowder-tipped sticks and chased each other around.

“This is almost mesmerizing,” Alexander commented as he gazed intently at the firework in his hand.

“Yeah?” Thomas returned, lighting one for himself. “But actual fireworks are even better.”

“I can imagine,” Alexander said. “I saw some videos of New Year’s countdown and fireworks online. The colors were captivating.”

Thomas smiled. “The live atmosphere is pretty neat, too.”

He was right; the bursts of sound and color were at once overwhelming and energizing, garish yet poetic. Sometimes the fireworks sounded like fat droplets of rain slamming onto the surface of an umbrella; sometimes, they sounded like a pot of sizzling soup, like simmering daydreams or crinkling plastic. Their colors--flashing, expanding, extinguished--lit Alexander up as they ballooned out in the sky above him and bestowed sparkling reflections within his eyes.

As they sat by the river, Thomas allowed his wand of firework to burn out and ever-so-casually slotted their fingers together. Alexander lifted up the hand in his hand and, brushing it across his lips, darted out his tongue and licked a few fingers--a tentative, fleeting touch of mouth and knuckles that nevertheless carried hints of all sorts of sordid dreams.

The multitude of strangers gave the illusion of privacy, that maybe they were the only sentient beings in the immediate surrounding area. In fact, they were so caught up with the temporarily colorful sky and with each other that Alexander's stick of firework ended up making contact with someone else’s shirt and he almost didn’t even realize what he’d accidentally done.

“Fuck--watch it!” the man snapped, patting the burnt area of his shirt’s hem.

Alexander was much more polite. “I’m sorry, sir,” Alexander said, before his eyes widened comically as he took in the identity of the person standing there and looking down at him. “ _Burr?_ ”

“What the fu-- _Hamilton?_ ” came the equally shocked reply.

“That’s me,” Alexander confirmed. “The same Alexander Hamilton that you killed with a bullet--”

“Because _you_ fired at _me_ first,” Burr contended.

“I just wanted to get the duel over with. I wasn’t even aiming at you,” Alexander said. “I didn’t really want to _kill_ you.”

“Neither did _I,_ ” Burr said. “Anyway, I’m actually sorry I killed you.”

Alexander waved away the apology--“Apparently you didn’t kill me properly, seeing as I’m still here.”

“You are,” Burr acknowledged. “And it’s all right if you don’t believe me, but I’m happy you’re here.”

They were semi-shouting to be heard over the booming noise of the fireworks.

He shot a quick glance at the man beside Alexander, then, registering the man’s identity, asked with incredulity, “Is this-- _holy shit. Jefferson._ ”

“The one and only,” Thomas replied, giving the man a nod. Then, in a rare, rare show of public displays of affection, Thomas tightened his hold on Alexander’s hand and pulled him closer.

Alexander glanced quickly at him with a strange, delighted confusion, before he understood the reason for it, felt himself enveloped by an unwitting warmth. Thomas was _worried;_ this was the man at whose hand Alexander had died.

Alexander squeezed their linked fingers, communicating wordlessly that he was fine, _really._ _I don’t cling to the past, remember?_ he asked with his eyes. Thomas stared back at him for a few seconds before returning one tiny nod. Alexander smiled.

Burr was, understandably, oblivious to most of the exchange, but even so he could tell that _some_ sort of exchange was going on. Bewildered, he asked with no small amount of hesitance, “Uh--are you two…?”

“Fucking?” Alexander finished for him. Then, shooting a mischievous look at Thomas--“Not yet.”

Burr grimaced, looking as he’d just received more information than he’d bargained for. He probably had. “What even--Okay. That’s not what I was going to ask, Hamilton. I didn’t need to know that.” He was shaking his head.

“Well, now you know,” Alexander said. “Anyway, I’m curious--did you actually try to create an independent country?”

“Well--yes.”

“That is one of the stupidest ideas I’ve heard either from you or in relation to you,” Alexander said. “On par with you running for president.”

“Fuck off,” Burr replied. “And since finding myself here, I’ve _been_ realizing that it was stupid.”

Alexander recognized wistfulness in his expression. Burr, too, must have been awestruck when he’d discovered the evolution of post-Revolutionary America into this nation of modernity and lavishness; this place sometimes of profligacy and often of asininity, but always embroiled in liveliness. It wasn’t perfect, but even Burr, surely, wouldn’t think of taking this country apart.

“Good, then,” Alexander said curtly. “Anyway, fancy meeting you. Who are you here with?”

“My family.”

“Your _family?_ ” Alexander echoed.

“I found Theodosia,” Burr explained. “We got together. And”--he glanced down at his ruined shirt--“She’s going to chew me out about this. It’s a new shirt.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. When you don’t get a chance to recreate the duel between Burr and Hamilton with magic wands bursting with fireworks.


	31. "I Will"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which--well, the notes explain it pretty well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so first, some French:  
>  _J'ai envie de toi._ "I want you."  
>  _Pourquoi pas?_ "Why not?"  
>  _Prends-moi._ "Take me."  
>  _Tu me rends fou._ "You drive me crazy."  
>  _Je vais._ "I will."

After their chance encounter with Burr, the summer night took on an almost mystical quality, an atmosphere of overflowing _possibility_ in which what had happened intertwined with what was happening and what would happen, where time seemed to jump at random, old enemies met without sufficient hostility to issue a rematch, and science felt like magic.

At first Thomas was concerned about Alexander--was his behavior normal? What was _normal_ protocol for behaving when you met the person who, centuries ago, had killed you? Surely it wasn’t chatting with each other almost cordially, like Alexander and Burr had seemed to be doing.

Eventually, though, maybe because of their surroundings or the steady heat of Alexander’s hand in his, Thomas relaxed and allowed himself to become a part of the mindless, meaningful celebration.

Thomas liked-- _too much_ \--the weight of Alexander as he leaned into him and the way Alexander’s hair was soft against his cheek, tickling slightly. Their fingers were threaded together, and Alexander’s hand was smaller, more bony, but strong all the same as it curled around Thomas’s, the interlocking of promises.

Under the dying illumination of a nighttime tapestry, Alexander climbed into Thomas’s lap, wrists resting on his shoulders. The physical proximity made Thomas’s heart race, and when Alexander lightly pressed a thumb to his neck, he smiled secretly, winningly.

“I can feel your pulse,” he whispered close to Thomas’s ear, his breath ghosting a pleasurable thrill through Thomas.

The next moment, Thomas felt lips nibbling the crescent shell of his ear, soft and imploring, carrying Alexander’s characteristic almost-whining quality. Thomas sat still, afraid to--no, not afraid-- _reluctant_ to disrupt this peaceable propinquity, this pleasurable sense of contentment pooling inside of him.

Alexander scooted so that their hips were flush together, and fuck--even if Thomas had wanted to, his body didn’t make any effort to ignore the friction the movement produced. By his ear, he felt Alexander huff out a breath in a laugh that was more of a pant.

“Good?” Alexander teased in a murmur, sounding delighted.

“Hush,” Thomas replied. He put his hands to Alexander’s waist and pulled him even closer, inhaling sharply when their bodies pressed together just so, relishing Alexander’s grunted curse and instinctive repeat of the motion.

“We’re grinding in public,” Alexander said. “I didn’t know you had an exhibitionist streak.”

“Then”--Thomas pulled away--“let’s go back.”

\---

The ride back was a memorable experience in sexual tension. Alexander was hard, but he didn’t touch himself--there were things that he craved more than simple release. He wanted Thomas’s fingers and Thomas’s skin, wanted soft lips burning on his own.

“Fuck,” Alexander breathed. “ _J’ai envie de toi._ ” He watched in satisfied fascination as Thomas’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel and his knuckles turned white.

“Why the _fuck_ are you suddenly talking in _French?_ ” Thomas asked.

“ _Pourquoi pas?_ ” Alexander replied. “Isn’t it romantic? Does it turn you on?”

“I was already turned on,” Thomas said dryly.

“Come on, you can’t really say that it does nothing for you when I say something like _this_ ”--Alexander lowered his voice--“Thomas, _prends-moi._ ”

A beat of silence before Thomas answered, voice equally breathy--“Oh, it does things for me all right-- _Tu me rends fou._ ”

And--fuck, Thomas’s accent shouldn’t have titillated him like this, but it did and Alexander was powerless to help it. He settled for a quiet, direct declaration just as evocative--“ _Je veux que tu me fasses l’amour._ ” _I want you to make love to me._

To which Thomas responded by stepping down harder on the gas pedal. “Fuck. _Je vais,_ ” was his whispered promise.

\---

After unlocking the door with some fumbling and tossing the keys onto the coffee table, Thomas strode after Alexander, who was heading unabashedly towards his own room.

“Why here?” Thomas asked, curious. They’d been sleeping together (just sleeping) in Thomas’s room for a while now, so why--

“This,” Alexander answered, digging through one of his bedside drawers and holding up a bottle of--

“Right,” Thomas muttered, the reality of what they were going to do sinking into him with technical clarity. “Lube. We’ll need that, won’t we.” He raised his eyebrows. “But since when did you have lube?”

“Since when I couldn’t find any in this godforsaken house,” Alexander replied, decidedly vague. “Anyway, let’s go. Your bed is nicer.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The joys of searching up “dirty talk in french” (ӦｖӦ｡)


	32. Previously Unexplored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sexual Content Happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: Explicit  
> Ahem. I'm _a little bit_ sorry. But then, I'm not sure for what.  
>  Anyway--I thought about breaking this into more chapters (because the chapters of this fic are all pretty short), but it's kinda weird to interrupt this particular kind of activity. Plus this isn't even that long compared to most other fics. So yeah.

Alexander didn’t hesitate to step out of his clothing the moment he entered Thomas’s room, stripping down to his underwear and tossing his clothes on the floor at random. Saying that he was completely comfortable being undressed in front of Thomas wouldn’t be entirely accurate--a part of him did, like most people would, worry about what Thomas thought of his body--but Alexander was caught up enough in the excitement of the moment that he could ignore the tiny bubble of anxiety. And it wasn’t like they hadn’t touched each other before (or sucked each other off--it was just once, but still), albeit those were done in relative darkness, usually under the covers and with clothes mostly unshed.

Thomas very cooperatively followed suit, pulling his shirt over his head and letting his pants fall to the floor, though his movements were slightly more halting. Alexander wasn’t very concerned: very soon he was going to make Thomas forget any reservations he had.

Dragging Thomas down onto the mattress and climbing over him, Alexander slashed their mouths together. His lips traveled from Thomas’s lips to his jaw, down to the side of his neck and to his collarbone. Traveling down even farther, Alexander’s tongue darted out to swirl around a nipple, and at the noise that Thomas made, he took it with his mouth, just barely scraping it with his teeth.

“ _Alex_ \--fuck,” Thomas said, his voice wobbling slightly.

 _Alex._ It was the first time Alexander had heard the diminutive of his name, intentional or not, from Thomas’s lips: rasped in the heated silence of their room and amidst the previously unexplored intimacy of their acts. Alexander seared the sound of it into his mind, the syllables hoarse with passion and curt in their strangled delivery. He flicked his tongue once--forcefully, teasingly--and pulled back, admiring the beautiful picture he’d made of Thomas: heavy-lidded eyes, parted lips, flushed face. Alexander’s thumbs still toyed with Thomas’s chest, in strokes that were almost absentminded, and every so often when Alexander pressed down at a particular angle, Thomas’s breathing would hitch visibly.

“I never knew your nipples were this sensitive,” Alexander commented playfully.

“Neither did I,” Thomas tossed back, voice strained.

One of Alexander’s hands trailed lightly down, past Thomas’s abdomen and then lower, slipping into his underwear. For a moment, Alexander simply cradled Thomas’s erection in his fingers as Thomas hooked an arm around his neck and brought him in for more kissing. Hungrier kissing. When Alexander began moving his hand, Thomas pulled him closer, spilling noises into Alexander’s mouth rather than into the air; Alexander didn’t mind.

\---

When they finally broke apart from the kiss, they were both breathless. Thomas thought that this was the most disheveled he’d yet seen Alexander, and that was saying a lot. He didn’t protest (how could he?) when Alexander pulled off his underpants, and he could only manage an incoherent hybrid of a sigh and a garble of syllables when Alexander took him in his mouth, lips wrapping delightfully over his skin.

It was a coiling heat that dragged chills of pleasure down Thomas’s spine. Thomas felt each brush of soft tongue, each feather-light scrape of teeth, each time Alexander swallowed around him. Thomas supposed that he had always known that Alexander’s mouth wasn’t merely good for talking.

It made an arresting picture, Thomas thought as he allowed his eyes to follow the path of Alexander’s lips. He buried his fingers in Alexander’s hair, the pads of his fingertips pressing insistently on Alexander’s scalp in half an effort to ground himself. For the most part, though, Thomas let himself indulge in the sensations--his head thrown back, lips parted by gasps.

Just as the pleasure threatened to spill over and take Thomas with it, Alexander pulled away, leaving Thomas feeling a chillness that had no place on a summer night.

“Alexander-- _Alex,_ ” he half-whined, half-whimpered.

“ _Tu avais promis de me baiser,_ ” came Alexander’s response, and of course he could manage to sound _petulant_ in this situation. _You promised to fuck me._

\---

Alexander made quick work of ridding himself of his underwear and picking up the bottle of lube lying haphazardly amidst the sheets. He uncapped it, dumped some on his fingers, and reached down to push one into himself, reveling in the way Thomas was watching him with a combination of desire and surprised apprehension.

“Here,” Alexander said after he got used to the feeling of the finger. He grabbed Thomas’s hand and poured some more lube on it, then guided it to where he’d been fucking himself on his own hand. “Put your finger in,” he instructed.

Thomas’s movements were tentative as the tip of his finger dipped into Alexander. And it did feel different to have someone else doing the fingering, Alexander noted, pleased. Less predictable, more thrilling. “Yes,” he said, answering Thomas’s unspoken inquiries--“like that. You can keep going. I’m perfectly fine. Really.”

“You’ve done this before,” Thomas said, appearing slightly… awed.

“Yes, dumbass. Why else would I have lube?” Alexander replied. “Well--just the fingers, that is. I’ve never had sex with another guy, if that’s what you meant.”

“I’m not really sure what I meant,” Thomas admitted. “But if you’ve never--I mean, are you sure you want--”

“ _Yes,_ Thomas. I’m sure I want this,” Alexander cut in.

“But--” Thomas began, but stopped at what he saw in Alexander’s expression. “Okay, let’s do this,” he said, acquiescing easily, “but promise you’ll tell me if you feel uncomfortable.”

“I promise,” Alexander agreed. He ground down on Thomas’s finger, waiting impatiently for Thomas to keep going. “You can add another finger already,” he urged.

Thomas obliged, his fingers more careful than Alexander’s usually were when he did this himself, and it was kind of sweet, Alexander thought. There were worse things in this world than being handled with care.

Three fingers, the other hand around Alexander’s cock; and for all of Thomas’s uncalled-for caution, the man was pretty damn good with his hands. Somewhere along the way, they had changed positions, and now Alexander was lying with his back on the bed and Thomas hovering over him. Alexander could feel the tips of Thomas’s fingers probing inside of him, and when they found what they were searching for, Alexander didn’t care to keep his back from arching or his mouth from making noises. Above him, Thomas’s eyes seemed to be smirking.

“Fuck--do that again,” Alexander said, his words ending in a sharp lilt as Thomas brushed over that spot once more, fingers pressing down gently, tantalizing.

“Good?” Thomas murmured against Alexander’s ear, his voice echoing Alexander’s teasing tone at the park.

“What do you think?” Alexander replied, giving Thomas an eye roll. “Yes, it’s good,” he said, then pushed down pointedly at Thomas’s hand; wickedly, “Though I bet being fucked would be even better.”

Thomas lifted an eyebrow and slipped his fingers out of Alexander, who frowned at the loss. Alexander didn’t like the sudden not-being-close-to-Thomas feeling, and he tried to convey the sentiment through his glare.

Thomas chuckled at his expression, but it was a sound accented with an edge of nervousness. “I’m scared I’m going to hurt you,” he confessed.

“You _won’t,_ ” Alexander protested.

“But you’re _tight._ ”

“I’m _supposed_ to be tight,” Alexander said. Then, sighing, he pushed himself up and patted the bed. “Here--you lie down. _I’ll_ do the work.”

Thomas complied with Alexander’s words and lay down, a doubtful look on his face. Thomas’s erection had diminished during the course of their short dialogue, and Alexander wasted no time in wrapping his fingers around it, toying with it until it regained its former rigidity and slipping on a condom (which he’d gotten when he’d gone to the store for the lube, because it was always good to be prepared).

After dumping a generous helping of lube on his palm and slicking Thomas up, Alexander positioned himself, took a breath, pressed down, hissing as the tip breached him; it burned, but it was far from unbearable, and Alexander gave it only a few seconds before he pushed down further. He heard the stutter in Thomas’s breathing when he clenched experimentally, and made a mental note to do that again later.

Once he was properly seated, for a short while Alexander simply sat astride Thomas, occasionally rocking back and forth, getting used to being _full_ like this. The serendipitous grazes of Thomas’s cock over that sweet spot inside sent tiny shivers skittering through his body, making him tighten his pelvic muscles involuntarily--and whenever that happened, Thomas’s fingers (which had settled at Alexander’s hips) would dig harder into Alexander’s skin.

“You good?” Alexander asked.

Thomas nodded. “But shouldn’t _I_ be asking _you_ that?”

“Well,” Alexander said, “since you’ve so nicely asked--I’m good. More than good. And I’m going to move now.”

He lifted himself up--not far enough for Thomas to completely slip out--and sank back down, the movement smoother this time. Alexander gasped (a moan might have slipped out his open mouth in the process) as he felt sudden pressure applied over his prostate. “Fuck--yes,” he said, pulling himself up again to repeat the motion.

They did it like that for a while--Alexander riding Thomas almost indulgently--until with a dramatic sigh Alexander abruptly slumped down onto Thomas, resting his cheek on Thomas’s chest. “I’m tired,” he explained lazily, letting his lips only just ghost over Thomas’s skin.

Alexander felt Thomas’s chest rumble with quiet laughter, and then his back was on the sheets and Thomas was rocking into him with slow exploratory rolls of his hips and he let his eyes fall closed and his breaths mingle with contented groans.

\---

Making love with Alexander was a beautiful fascination. Exquisite, even--and that was a word that Thomas would never have thought he’d one day use in association with Alexander, though now that he did, it seemed strangely fitting.

Alexander was insistent heat around Thomas, a tightness that gave way as Thomas slid into him. As he moved, Thomas took the opportunity to appreciate the man below him--the rise and fall of his chest, the fluttering of his eyelids, the tangled mess of his hair. It was picturesque, it made Thomas’s throat constrict, and it was _hot._ Heat wove taut low in his abdomen and Thomas must have pushed in particularly hard or deep because Alexander let out a string of curses following a yelp, then demanded, impertinently, “ _Again._ ”

Thomas was amenable to that. Their pace grew faster, their movements rougher, and despite his complaint about being tired, Alexander’s hips pushed back eagerly to meet Thomas’s. Their breaths coalesced in gasps and sighs and other intimate noises that escaped their lips in the delicate frenzy.

One of Alexander's hands found purchase on Thomas’s back, and the other stole down to grasp himself, fingers stroking with a seeming desperation in rhythm to Thomas’s movements.

“I’m close,” Alexander said, the words tight.

Thomas moved faster, aiming purposefully for that spot that made Alexander’s fingers dig harder into his back. “I know,” Thomas replied.

“ _Fuck,_ Thomas,” Alexander breathed. “ _Thomas._ ”

“Yes?”

“-- _Fuck._ ”

“I am.”

It was with a curious tenderness that Thomas watched Alexander come apart. Thomas let himself be pulled down closer, listened to Alexander’s mumbled compilation of curses interspersed with mutters of _Thomas,_ taking in visually his sharp inhales and feeling his body tense then shudder.

“Keep going,” Alexander gasped out. “Keep moving.”

And so Thomas fucked him through his orgasm, unrelenting, unable to relent, chasing his own release in Alexander’s slippery heat, in the piquant scent of sweat and sex, in the impressions made by Alexander’s fingers on his skin.

And in the end, what took him over the edge was the way Alexander was looking up at him--eyes bright after his orgasm, a half-smile dancing on his lips, as if he was admiring the sight of Thomas hovering over him, seeking his own pleasure--and the barely audible whisper of the words, “Thomas, you’re looking all _debauched._ ”

Maybe he _did_ have an underexplored exhibitionist streak.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. You know. First attempt at actually explicit stuff^  
> And:  
> Incognito tabs are for search queries like “anal sex how to” and “how to write smut” (Ahhh I kind of can’t believe I actually searched those things up)


	33. The Necessary Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, What Comes After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'll be nice to them.

Afterwards, they hopped in the shower together, where Thomas sternly told Alexander to hold on to him. “I’d rather you not slip and crack open your head,” he said.

“I’m _fine._ I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself,” Alexander replied, but he kept a hand on Thomas’s arm, warmed by his concern.

The light in the bathroom was bright, illuminating, and Alexander watched, almost enraptured, as water droplets soaked into Thomas’s hair and trailed down his skin. He didn’t know what he was watching for, but took comfort in the absence of regret in Thomas’s expression (not that he’d expected Thomas to regret it). Alexander tugged at Thomas’s arm and he obligingly leaned close for a kiss, heedless of the water dripping down his face, the soapy slipperiness of his hands. It was a quiet kiss--careful, chaste. They were smiling against each other’s lips.

\---

“You know that time you called me when you were in China?” Alexander asked, as they lay in bed, fingers brushing against each other but not holding hands.

“Yeah,” Thomas responded. “I called because for some absurd reason, I missed you.”

“Of course you did. I’m awesome,” Alexander said, flippant. “Anyway, you remember how I told you I was jerking off to the thought of you?”

“Yes.”

“You thought I was joking, right?”

“... Yeah.”

“I wasn’t joking,” Alexander said. “When you called, I’d just finished having my fingers up my ass for the first time in my life. And I fantasized that they were your fingers.”

Thomas found himself imagining it: Alexander touching himself, fingering himself, making the noises he made when he fell apart earlier this night--all the while thinking about _him._ “Fuck,” he said softly, “that’s kind of hot.”

“It was,” Alexander agreed, turning onto his side so that he was facing Thomas. He grabbed Thomas’s hand and wove their fingers together, then held their joined hands up and admired them. Alexander brought them to his mouth and kissed each of Thomas’s knuckles, his lips leaving footprints of lingering warmth.

\---

Ironically, coincidentally--perhaps even significantly in that it seemed like a cruel portent--it happened then:

That nervous tickling in his mind. A faint, persistent, crescendoing buzz from deep within the recesses of his brain.

He must have stiffened, because Alexander turned his gaze to him with a worried frown.

“Thomas?” he called, softly.

“Hm?” Thomas managed. He wanted the jittering to go away; he wanted the memories to never come back. He didn’t want to be Thomas Jefferson the Hypocrite, didn’t want to learn firsthand through these memories how he’d squandered himself into debt and paid for his own follies with the freedom of his slaves. He didn’t want to remember Sally Hemings, because there was historical evidence that said he had taken advantage of her, for all the refusal she had been in a position to give.

“Are you okay?” came Alexander’s concerned voice.

Thomas didn’t know how to reply. He didn’t want to ruin this for Alexander--their first time together deserved to be perfect for him. But Thomas didn’t want to lie to him, either--and it wasn’t like he _could_ lie, anyway, once the headache started.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Thomas,” Alexander implored, any prior hints of sleepiness now absent from his tone.

At Thomas’s silence, Alexander--brilliant as he was--connected the dots and drew the correct conclusion. “It’s a headache, isn’t it? One where you remember new things.”

\---

Thomas asked Alexander to bring him another one of those pain meds that put him to sleep. Alexander thought it was probably because experiencing the memories as dreams was somehow easier--perhaps it was better, to just let the memories flow into his consciousness rather than to have to be conscious as they returned, forced to analyze and reflect while in pain.

Alexander hurriedly retrieved the medication and a glass of water, unwilling to leave Thomas alone for any longer than necessary. He watched anxiously as Thomas downed the tablet and the water, and then took the cup from him, setting it lightly on the bedside table.

Alexander took Thomas’s hand in his own, feeling his pulse beneath the clammy skin. He was going to hold Thomas’s hand, Alexander decided. Hold it as Thomas braved the horrors hiding in the crevices of his memories, hold it whether Thomas emerged unscathed or shattered.

“I’m right here,” he whispered now, giving Thomas’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I believe in you. You’re _strong._ ”

 _Strong enough to stay_ you. _Strong enough to hate your past self, if need be._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What will Thomas remember?  
> *wiggles eyebrows*
> 
> And, because I'm a grammar/language enthusiast (ahem, _nerd_ ), I want to point something out:  
> I wrote the phrase  
> "their first time together deserved to be perfect for him"  
> I was aware, when I wrote this, that I was misusing the verb "deserve":  
>  _to be worthy of; to merit, be qualified for, or have a claim to (reward, assistance, punishment, etc.)_  
>  In a perfectly grammatical sentence with all words correctly used, I should have written:  
> "he deserved to have their first time be perfect"  
> However, I wanted the focus to be on "their first time," because _it's their first time it's significant RIGHT?_ Yeah. So there.  
>  I did ponder that phrase again as I was reading over this, and I suppose I could have also written:  
> "their first time ought to be perfect for him"  
> But personally I think that sounds weaker. The word "ought" also sounds stiffer and more formal, so in the end I didn't change it.  
> Plus, I study Latin in school, and while reading the _Aeneid_ , I was really fascinated by the way Vergil sometimes uses verbs unconventionally--like he would give intransitive verbs direct objects or reverse the subject and object or do this wacky construction called Greek middle voice. Anyway.  
> Bottom line is that I think what makes language fun is that it's flexible.


	34. Paris, France, and Eyes So Blue

A letter--

_It’s impossible to paint the anguish of my heart on this melancholy occasion. A most unfortunate whooping cough has deprived you, and us, of two sweet Lucys, within a week. Ours was the first that fell a sacrifice. She was thrown into violent convulsions which lingered out a week and then expired. Your dear angel was confined a week to her bed; her sufferings were great though nothing like a fit. She retained her senses perfectly, called me a few moments before she died, and asked distinctly for water._

\---

Lucy--the second one, the last child Martha birthed before her death--dies at the age of two and a half. The Marquis de Lafayette is the one to carry a letter from the attending doctor to Thomas.

Martha is gone, and he has failed the youngest daughter she had left him with. He should have been by Lucy’s side instead of in France, should have _taken better care of her, somehow._

\---

Paris, France, and eyes so blue that they almost seem violet. Golden hair frames a rounded face, unblemished skin and a delicate nose. From rosy lips flow lilting syllables in a musical Italian accent, and he is ensnared.

Almost four years since Martha’s death, and his heart finally yearns once again, as if his heartstrings have been tuned, pulled taut and now eager to be played.

They talk art and architecture, visiting exhibits in the city and the countryside, and he reminisces over their time together, over the places they go--the Pont du Neuilly, the hills along the Seine, the rainbows of the Machine of Marly. And at the end of each day he recalls their adventures--the terraces of Saint Germain, the chateaux, the gardens, the statues of Marly, the Pavilion of Louveciennes… And, _in the evening,_ he writes almost giddily, _when one took a retrospect of the day, what a mass of happiness had we travelled over!_

\---

In September he breaks his right wrist, by one of those follies from which good cannot come, but ill may. The doctors are summoned, though they do but a poor job setting the bone, so that he is subjected to excruciating pain for the next few days.

Unwilling to let a broken bone get in the way of spending a final few precious moments with Maria Cosway, he suffers through the jostling of a ride in a carriage rocking over the rough cobbles of the streets of Paris, enjoying one last day in each other’s company.

When she departs with her husband, so attached to her presence is Thomas that he accompanies them to the very outskirts of Paris, only to return to the bustle of the city in lonely silence.

\---

That evening he sits musing in his bedchamber, caught between reason and emotion. He is, of course, not the first man to ever fall for a married young woman, but that does not mean the world has formulated a ready answer for them. Maria reciprocates his feelings, he believes, but even so--what could the future hold for them? He knows that they are faced with nothing short of trouble and grief, but his heart beats in the music of her voice echoing in his mind.

He has remained constant to the memory of Martha for four long years; surely, _surely_ he now deserves to hold close something more substantial than the blurring silhouette of a dead wife.

Slowly, clumsy because he is writing with his left hand--his right wrist still throbs insistently, although he has gotten apt at tolerating the discomfort--he begins to write to her.

It is a long letter, crafted symbol by symbol, the fingers of his left hand gripping tightly to control the path of the ink. Yet he writes on, content to suffer the cramping of his knuckles and the fact that his eyes are starting to smart from staring too long at the pages, if only for Maria to understand the way his heart aches for her, the way his reason tortures him so, as it points out again and again the improbability of their relationship.

He writes of his heart and his head, a dialogue that spans twelve pages but continues to spiral on for far longer in his mind. He hopes she understands, because he does not.

\---

He sends for nine-year-old Polly in June of 1787, who is accompanied by Sally Hemings, a slave from Monticello and the younger sister of James, whom Thomas had brought to Paris and trained in French cuisine.

Sometimes it hurts to look at Sally--they say she is Martha’s half-sister, and she resembles his wife--too much. But even a little resemblance would be too much, Thomas thinks.

Sally looks like a version of Martha that is so much _younger._ Healthy. With a vibrancy that, had Martha possessed it, would have changed so many things.

\---

He has her inoculated against smallpox, boards her for a time at a laundry where she receives instruction, and hires her a French tutor. He isn’t sure why he does any of it, only that it feels like an obligation. Finally, he sends her off with Patsy and Polly to their convent school because sometimes he cannot bring himself to look at her; she reminds him of Martha, and Martha is dead and his heart has strayed, but it has not strayed quite far enough for him to forget her. Maria Cosway had been a pleasant diversion, but Sally Hemings triggers memories that echo all too vividly the feelings he once held--perhaps still holds--for Martha.

\---

Perhaps it’s that he feels guilty, feels like he has betrayed Martha’s memory by feeling what he feels for Maria--however transient, however shallow--and Sally conveniently resembles Martha, and he wishes to keep a piece of Martha close--so uncomfortable as it is for him to look at her, Thomas selfishly does not want to leave her in France.

(Where she can be free.)

He asks her to go back to America with him, where she will once again be a slave. It is a terrible request, he knows, and perhaps that is why he allows her to negotiate, to barter, to make demands:

Deep down, he knows he does not have to honor his promises--not to her.

\---

But he vows he will. He is a terrible human being, of that he is perfectly aware; but these promises, he will keep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Elizabeth Wayles Eppes’s (Lucy’s aunt, who also has a daughter named Lucy) [letter to TJ](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Jefferson/01-07-02-0341)
> 
> 2\. The following are TJ’s own words: “it was by one of those follies from which good cannot come, but ill may”
> 
> 3\. [TJ’s love letter to Maria Cosway](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Jefferson/01-10-02-0309) was ≈ 4,000 words long like WTH. How. And all written with his left hand, too. (And no, I didn’t read the whole thing. It was too wordy for me lol.)
> 
> 4\. From the same love letter: “in the evening, when one took a retrospect of the day, what a mass of happiness had we travelled over!”
> 
> 5\. I drew heavily upon the article [Thomas Jefferson And Maria Cosway | AMERICAN HERITAGE](https://www.americanheritage.com/content/thomas-jefferson-and-maria-cosway) and also [Maria Cosway's Wikipedia page](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maria_Cosway).


	35. Still Unexcused, Still Unanswered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which He Wakes Up

Alexander refused to sleep--he left Thomas’s side exactly once to make himself some (very, very strong) coffee. Then he returned and took Thomas’s hand in his own and gripped it tight.

Truthfully, Alexander didn’t know what he would do when Thomas woke up. He didn’t know if Thomas would still _be Thomas._ What if the man who opened these eyes was someone completely different from the one who had closed them? No one knew what these memories would reveal--not history scholars, not Thomas himself, and certainly not Alexander. Indeed, the entire controversy regarding the probable relationship between Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings was far from settled dust, and as much as Alexander might wish it otherwise, the popular opinion was one that claimed Jefferson paternity of Sally’s children.

(It made sense, Alexander had to agree--why else would the man have freed Sally Hemings’s children, when he hadn’t done the same for the rest of his slaves? Why else would he not have recorded the father of her children, like he did for the births of his other slaves?)

\-- _What if Thomas wakes up a hypocrite and a bigot? What if Thomas wakes up and pushes Alexander away?_

Alexander’s stomach churned at the thought, and a sudden tremor had him unintentionally douse himself with what coffee was left in the cup he held.

He was afraid--maybe even terrified. Somewhere along the way, he had become used to-- _attached_ to--Thomas’s warmth beside him in bed: the little noises he made in his sleep, or the occasional reverberations of a quasi-snore, especially when the air is a little bit dry; his tiny movements when he dreams; his messed-up hair in the mornings, before he’d had time to comb it meticulous. Alexander had grown accustomed to the way Thomas’s atrocious mac and cheese tasted, had come to rely on Thomas’s smiles to bring completion to his days, had gotten addicted to the rush he felt whenever they debated.

Somewhere along the way, Alexander had become unable to imagine living--at least not _fully_ \--without Thomas, and--especially after what they had just done (excellent sex, if he did say so himself)--Alexander didn’t think he could ever find someone else who understood him, or _could_ understand him, as well as Thomas, who had met him twice over and then some. Who had known him both in rivalry and in truce. Who had fought him and kissed him and nursed him through a gunshot wound.

Their relationship was a culmination of chance and something akin to magic--of meeting in the right place and at the right time (miraculous, really, that they had found themselves here), far removed from post-Revolutionary America and the burdensome responsibilities of having to construct a republic in a world of monarchies, of being required to experiment but forbidden to fail. Here, too, they were in a world where it was not labeled sodomy for them to fall in love--because this was what they’d done, wasn’t it?

It was a beautiful coincidence, and its beauty made it seem fragile. Alexander didn’t understand how they’d come to be here, nor did he comprehend all the workings of the human brain and heart, but he fiercely wished to protect this life in which he’d somehow found himself, this person beside him to whom he somehow felt he belonged.

His fingers tightened around Thomas’s.

_I’m right beside you._

\---

The haze of his memories and the fog of the narcotic cleared away at a snail’s pace, like the receding flames of a setting sun, slowly but steadily: noticeable eventually. Yet from the moment the onslaught of recollections had waned, Thomas took comfort in the firm grip on his hand. In his post-headache trance, he did not think about to whom the grip belonged, only that it was warm and unwavering; but when he pushed his eyelids open and landed his gaze on their join hands, he accepted the sight matter-of-factly, feeling like he’d always known it was Alexander’s hand in his.

Alexander’s hand was smaller than his, but his fingers could be unpredictably strong--stubbornly strong. Right now, Thomas was grateful for their strength.

Thomas made an attempt to curl his fingers, to reciprocate the hand-holding, that ended up being but a tiny twitching of a few of his digits.

But Alexander felt it--his gaze snapped up to meet Thomas’s, as precisely as if guided by some strange magnetic force.

Alexander looked like he hadn’t slept in hours; he probably hadn’t, Thomas knew. There was a rather evident coffee stain at the hem of his shirt that made Thomas want to wince--it was a dark stain on a light-colored shirt, and looked as if it had been dry for a good while.

“Thomas?” Alexander said, voice inquiring, uncertain. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m a terrible person,” Thomas croaked. Clearing his throat, he added, “And like I’d just had a terrible headache.”

Alexander’s worried face relaxed a little, and he gave Thomas a small smile. It made Thomas feel better. Less of a mess.

“I’ll get you some water,” Alexander said. “I’ll be right back.”

Thomas took that time to push himself up to a sitting position, resting his back again the bed frame. When Alexander returned, he carefully took the cup from him with weak but steady fingers.

“So,” Alexander said, sounding slightly agitated, “do you… want to talk about it?”

Thomas downed the entire cup of water before answering. “... Okay.”

And he talked, and Alexander’s hand came to rest over his, and Thomas told him about Lucy and Maria and Sally Hemings, about his accumulated debt and the subsequent inability--or reluctance--to act according to his own principles, about the prejudices he’d conjured for his self-justification: that slaves were inferior in intelligence, that emancipation in large numbers portended uprisings, that the people were not ready (as if the slaves had not been _people,_ too).

Alexander remained quiet, simply listening with an almost febrile attentiveness. It was no small feat for him, Thomas was aware, because many times Alexander’s brows would furrow and his lips would part to spout a question (or a few) before he would catch himself and settle back, allowing Thomas to continue uninterrupted. Thomas was thankful, because he knew that if he did not spill it all at once, it would only be that much harder for him to talk about this.

\---

Thomas hadn’t done it. Or, at least, not prior to 1795. Alexander was indescribably relieved: he didn’t know how he would have reacted, how he should react, if Thomas’s memories had so soon revealed him to have fathered any of Sally Hemings’s children--to have been involved with a slave woman in that way.

His questions were still unanswered--why he’d freed them, why he’d left out records of their father--but Alexander was content for now. This ignorance was a temporary blessing, and if that was what the universe was willing to offer them, Alexander would take it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the end, I'm leaning more towards making it in this **fictional** story that TJ hadn't been sexually involved with Sally Hemings. Because I promised I was going to be nice to them.


	36. Worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Let's Talk About That Love Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some lighter stuff just because

“I feel like a manipulative, hypocritical jerk,” Thomas muttered in conclusion.

“Don’t worry--you are,” Alexander said, although the softness of his tone was at odds with the snark in his words. (Part of the softness was undoubtedly due to Alexander’s lack of rest.)

“You look like shit, Alexander,” Thomas commented with a frown. “How long have I been out?”

“It’s three twenty-three in the afternoon,” Alexander replied after checking his phone, which had been placed on the bedside table.

“That’s--You’ve been awake for more than twenty-four hours,” Thomas said. “That’s not--that’s not healthy. And aren’t you, uh, _sore?_ From what we did?”

Despite everything, this made Alexander crack a smile, a weak smirk. “Twenty-four hours isn’t the longest I’ve ever gone without sleep,” he told Thomas, illogically proud--or maybe he just liked seeing the way Thomas’s forehead creased between his brows as he fussed over him. “As for being sore--what do you _think?_ ” (Yes, Alexander’s butt and thighs were still sore, the cramped muscles probably having been exacerbated by sitting stiffly in a chair beside the bed for several hours straight.)

Thomas sighed, and the fondness in the quiet exhale stirred Alexander’s chest, sent tiny tides of relief cruising the edges of Alexander’s heart, soothing, because Thomas was still here.

However distraught over his past the man may be, at least he was willing to let Alexander remain by his side.

Thomas scooted over to the far side of the bed and patted the vacated portion of the mattress. “Get up here,” he told Alexander sternly. “And get some sleep. I _really_ don’t want you to die.”

“Not sleeping for _one day_ isn’t going to kill me,” Alexander protested even as he obediently climbed into bed and settled snugly beside Thomas.

Thomas traced the dark wedges under Alexander’s eyes with his thumbs, the brushes of his fingertips unbelievably light and sending shivery sensations through Alexander.

“ _Sleep,_ Alexander,” Thomas murmured. “I don’t want you to abuse your body like this because of me. I’m not _worth_ all that.”

“But I _want_ you to be worth that, and more,” Alexander said. “I want to be there when you laugh without reserve, when your lashes flutter in pleasure like they did earlier, when we fucked. I want to be there when you end up drunk for whatever reason and smell of pretentiously expensive alcohol, and even when you’re upset and all melancholic and refuse to say a thing--I want to coax the words out of you and be the one to make it _better,_ Thomas. See, _you_ don’t get to decide if you’re ‘worth’ me staying up. _I_ do, and, if you haven’t figured it out yet, I tend to do what I please.”

“I know you do,” Thomas responded. “And my wines are not ‘pretentiously expensive.’ Now go to sleep.” He shifted closer and pressed a kiss to the tip of Alexander’s nose.

Alexander scoffed, mumbled, “I’m not a _little kid,_ ” and tilted his chin so that their lips caught together.

The kiss was tamed with memories of an unpleasant, complicated past and with the restraints of present fatigue. At one point Alexander thought Thomas murmured something like a _thank you_ against his mouth, but he _was_ tired and his eyelids were heavy and he could only really process the delightful feel of the pillow beneath his cheek.

\---

Thomas watched in faint amusement as Alexander’s eyes fell closed and his breathing slowed within moments of his head hitting the pillow. Thomas eyed Alexander’s empty coffee mug, then shifted his gaze back to the sleeping Alexander. Either the coffee had been ineffective or Alexander was more exhausted than he had wanted Thomas to think. The latter was undoubtedly the case, and Thomas sighed quietly.

He trailed a finger across Alexander’s cheekbone, down his cheek, tucked a few strands of unruly hair behind his ear only to have them escape the moment he let go.

“You know,” Alexander said, not opening his eyes, “I can’t believe you wrote a four-thousand-word love letter. And with your left hand, too. That’s some _dedication._ ” Then, his voice lowered, he muttered, “And _you_ complain about the length of my proposals.”

“I was pretty smitten with her,” Thomas agreed wistfully. “I shouldn’t have been.” He shuffled closer, a wry smile on his face, although Alexander’s eye remained shut. “What--do you want one, too? A four-thousand-word love letter from me?”

“Do you even _have_ that much to write to me?” Alexander asked. His eyes opened and they met Thomas’s, gaze unusually serious. “Things that would befit being written in a love letter?”

“I…” Thomas swallowed and wet his lips before continuing. “I do have a lot to write about you, Alexander.”

Raised brows, and, softly, “Really.”

“Yes,” Thomas replied. “A lot of things befitting a love letter.” This was a confession. Or a declaration. Thomas wasn’t sure.

For a few seconds Alexander just stared at him, his eyes seeming to be searching for something. Then his mouth curved slightly and he closed his eyes once more. “Okay,” he said. “That’s good to know. But I’m fine without the letter. Just… stay.”

 _Stay where?_ Thomas almost asked, but then Alexander’s fingers wrapped around his hand and all Thomas said was, “Okay.”

Alexander slept right through the rest of the afternoon, and when Thomas prodded him half-awake to ask him if he wanted something to eat for dinner, he waved him away blearily and went right back to sleep. Thomas, for his part, had some leftover soup before he, too, crawled into bed beside Alexander, grateful for the comfort he managed to provide even while asleep.

 

 


	37. Blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, a Resolution of Sorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeesh. What have I done to Thomas Jefferson.

Alexander woke in a fit of coughing, an uncomfortable itch in his throat. After having tried and failed to clear his discomfort, he flung himself up into a sitting posture, irritable.

But before he could get out of bed, Thomas--sitting in the chair that Alexander had been sitting in--pressed an insulated water bottle into his hand.

Alexander was almost startled, but he took the bottle, opened it, and took a sip of the warm water inside, which alleviated--if only momentarily--his sore throat.

“Thanks,” Alexander said, frowning in displeasure as he listened to the scratchy quality of his own voice. “But how did you know I would want water when I woke up?”

“You were coughing in your sleep,” Thomas explained. “I don’t even know how you remained sleeping this long.”

“Oh,” Alexander said, before sipping more of the water. “I think I’m sick,” he stated, then sniffed his nose.

“You probably are,” Thomas replied. “This is why you shouldn’t not sleep, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alexander said. “Whatever. I’ll be fine.”

Thomas sighed. “You’d better be,” he muttered.

“How are _you?_ ”

“Better than you.”

“Okay,” Alexander conceded. Then let out a dramatic sigh and asked, whining, “Does this mean I won’t be able to kiss you for a while?” To add to the effect, he hung his head.

Thomas leveled a dry look at Alexander. Then, in an action to fast and smooth for Alexander to evade--it was almost a lunge, Alexander thought--he covered Alexander’s lips with his. As much as Alexander enjoyed the pressure of Thomas’s mouth moving over his, his hands pushed at Thomas’s shoulders in protest, though they were too weak to be of much effect. The only thing he could do was keep his lips tightly pressed together. When they finally separated, it was Thomas who pulled away, a small smile on his face.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Alexander demanded as he reached out to wipe a sleeve over Thomas’s mouth. “Do you want to get sick too?”

“You have my permission to share your saliva with me anytime you want,” Thomas said softly, so softly that it sounded more sincere than playful.

“You--That’s not what I was asking!” Alexander protested, a warmth in his cheeks that wasn’t at all unpleasant.

“I…” Thomas seemed to suddenly be possessed by a strange despondence. “I’m sorry--”

 _What?_ “Wait, what?”

“--If you didn’t want me to kiss you just now--”

“That’s not it--”

“I’ll understand if you’ve changed your mind about me,” Thomas continued, casting his eyes downwards, “especially after these newest… insights… of mine--”

“Thomas--”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you without asking first. Fuck--Maybe I _did_ violate Sally Hemings--”

“ _Thomas--_ ” This was getting a bit not good.

“Maybe I just did what I wanted, what I thought she wanted, when she actually didn’t want it, like I did with you just now--”

“ _Thomas!_ ” Alexander said as loud as he could, ignoring the burn in his throat as the syllables clawed their way out.

Thomas’s eyes were distraught as he looked at Alexander. “I--”

“ _Thomas. Listen._ ” Alexander paused, taking a moment to sort his slew of thoughts into a script that had some semblance of coherence for oral delivery. (Being with Thomas had a tendency both to make Alexander think too much all at once and to scatter his thoughts. Most of the time, Alexander didn’t mind; the chaos of his thoughts when he was around Thomas was something that Alexander usually cherished--a beautiful oblivion, almost. But not right now.)

“First--of course I want to kiss you,” Alexander began. “Your lips are soft and warm and you taste like _you,_  and the way you French-kiss is positively _sinful_ and I love it--What? Don’t look at me like that. I’m being _truthful._ ”

“Second--yes, I have complicated feelings regarding your past--that’ll never change. But while you were unconscious with your memories, I wasn’t worried about you realizing what you’d done--what else hasn’t been speculated? I’ve managed to fall for you despite all the possible awful things you might have done. No, Thomas, I’m perfectly aware of the monster you might have been. What I was afraid of was that you would wake up and push me away--”

At this, Thomas opened his mouth, but Alexander held up a hand to stop him.

“I’d been prepared to stay by you no matter what terrible things you would’ve discovered about yourself once you woke up. Was I troubled by how forwardly clingy I was willing to be? Yes, I was; still am. See, Thomas--the problem here isn’t that I don’t want you to kiss me. It’s that I like it too much.”

“Finally, I _had_ been complaining about not being able to kiss you while I’m sick. You kissing me when I obviously wanted it does not indicate that you raped Sally Hemings”--Thomas seemed to suppress a flinch at the mention of that word, but Alexander pressed on, unrelenting--“Yes, you might have. Hell, most people now think you probably did. But I was a lawyer once, like you, and to me you’re innocent until you’ve been proven guilty--and even if, one day, you’re proven guilty, I don’t think I’d be able to tear myself away from you.”

“You’d hate me, though,” Thomas said bluntly.

“Not if you hate yourself first,” Alexander replied. “Anyway, my _point_ is”--and his voice was quiet and serious and rough, with unidentified emotions and from a scratchy throat--“I didn’t _not_ want your kiss.”

And just to prove it, Alexander pulled Thomas close and kissed him, and if Thomas got sick--well, at least there was a reason, and Alexander wasn’t the only one to blame.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you know--they both get sick but it wasn't all that bad.
> 
> \---
> 
>   
> I know this is a less-than-satisfactory ending, but I do have plans on continuing it in a series (I more have parts of it written). I'm just preoccupied with schoolwork and don't have time at the moment. If I get the chance, I might add an epilogue to this, and that would be chapter 38.
> 
> I know that ultimately I've left the Jefferson-Hemings controversy veiled so far, but when I get there (in the future), I do think I will address that. As you know from my end notes in one of the previous chapters, I plan on denying Jefferson paternity in this story (which is ultimately **fictional** ), and it's because I want to be nice to them, for one, but it's also because I wish to explore how a person would feel if he or she is misunderstood on such a drastic level and wrongly accused but unable to prove his or her own innocence. Again, of course, this is _not_ to deny Jefferson paternity on a historical level, because I **don't know** , and probably will never know, that particular piece of history.
> 
> Finally, I want to thank every one of you for reading this. It's my very first attempt at writing something this long, and every comment and kudos has been and will continue to be a wonderful encouragement.
> 
> (PS: On a side note, I've recently finished this gay Thai drama called _Together With Me_ \--my very first Thai drama and I was not used to the way Thai sounds--but it's CUTE.)


	38. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alexander Does Something Capricious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♡♥♡♥  
> I guess this is a consolation for those of us for whom school has just started or is about to start...

That day.

Thomas woke up like normal, with Alexander still asleep beside him. As usual, Thomas allowed himself a few minutes of lying there, smile unstifled, just looking at Alexander’s sleeping face. After that, Thomas scooted up so that he sat with his back to the headboard, at which point sleepy Alexander made a whine of discontentment and, without opening his eyes, reached over to grab randomly at Thomas--his hand first flopping onto Thomas’s stomach, then his arm, his chest, then finally smack onto his face. Thomas pried Alexander’s fingers from his face with practiced indifference, pressed light kisses to them, and kept their hands linked, setting them over his abdomen. Alexander shifted and turned over, trapping Thomas under his leg and his other arm.

“Clingy,” Thomas teased.

“Mm,” Alexander said, cracking open his groggy eyes. He then pushed himself halfway up so that he could transfer his body completely onto Thomas's.

So now Thomas had a full-grown man lying over him on his stomach.

“Get off,” he said. “It’s hot.”

“I don’t want to,” Alexander mumbled--

Against Thomas’s crotch, because Thomas was sitting and Alexander’s head lined up roughly with his groin. Thomas felt the vibrations of Alexander's voice _intimately._

“Alexander,” he said. “Get _up._ ”

Alexander shook his head, and by now Thomas knew that he was rubbing against him on purpose, so he wasn’t surprised when Alexander adjusted himself slightly and yanked lazily at Thomas’s waistline. Alexander took Thomas in his hand and out of his pants. And gave Thomas what was probably the sleepiest, most half-assed morning blowjob ever.

Afterwards, Alexander cooperatively shifted off Thomas’s body and promptly went back to sleep. Thomas huffed a sigh, though his face felt flushed and there was an amused smile on his face.

Like normal, Thomas got out of bed and had some breakfast, before he grabbed his stuff and left for work.

Work was typical, too. He chatted with clients and signed off deals and monitored market prices. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then, at the end of it all, Thomas went home to find something that was definitely _not normal._

Alexander sat in the living room typing away on his laptop. _That_ was normal. What wasn’t was his fucking _hair._

“What did you _do?_ ” Thomas asked.

“Hm?” Alexander replied distractedly.

“ _Why is your hair fucking blue?_ ”

Thomas took solace in the fact that it was not an obnoxious, juvenile sort of blue--the bright, electric sort--but a less insolent ombre gradient from a dark gray at the roots to a paler cerulean. Nevertheless, it was _weird._

“Oh. This?” Alexander reached up and touched his hair. “I got it dyed.”

“I can _see_ that,” Thomas said. “ _Why?_ ”

“I was bored.”

“So you dyed your hair blue?”

“Yeah.”

“... I don’t even know what to say.”

“How about ‘You look amazing’?” Alexander suggested impishly.

“How about no?” Thomas tossed back.

“Aw,” Alexander said. “Personally, I think I look pretty dashing. You know, in an adventurous sort of way.”

“... Uhuh.” Thomas put his stuff down and made his way over to Alexander. He combed a few fingers through Alexander’s hair. It didn’t feel _that_ different, at least.

\---

They ate dinner together, which was usual. Then Thomas went to take his shower. When he came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, he wasn’t surprised to find Alexander waiting for him in bed, shirtless, appearing almost languid.

 _And--_ with his blue hair in glaring contrast against the white of the pillowcase.

Thomas shook his head but kept his smile, feeling a mixture of resignation and fascination. He’d never have thought to see Alexander with blue hair, of all things, but he also wasn’t surprised that Alexander would do something like dying his hair blue on a whim.

Wordlessly, Thomas approached Alexander. As he stood over Alexander, a few drops of water fell from his wet hair onto Alexander’s bare skin; for some reason, Thomas found the trailing droplets mesmerizing. And in the dim light of their bedroom, for just a moment, Thomas thought that Alexander looked magical, like something out of a storybook. A roguish faerie prince, maybe, or a handsome, beguiling trickster.

“Don’t just _stand there,_ ” Alexander said, tugging Thomas down.

Their lips met, growing from tentative to unyielding as Thomas hoisted himself onto the bed and over Alexander. When they pulled apart, Alexander’s eyes harbored a beautiful glitter, which was framed by--

“Are you wearing _eyeshadow?_ ” Thomas asked with incredulity.

Alexander grinned. “So you finally noticed,” he said. His palm at the back of Thomas’s neck, Alexander pulled Thomas closer. “It’s all for the effect, of course.”

So _that_ was why he’d thought Alexander looked different, Thomas realized. “I see,” Thomas said, ghosting his breath over Alexander’s lips and watching Alexander’s lashes flutter. “But what’s the occasion?”

Alexander smiled. “Need there be an occasion?” he asked, his voice a provocative wisp.

“No,” Thomas replied, equally softly. Because it was _Alexander_ and if he wanted to dye his hair blue and paint his eyelids with fucking eyeshadow, then Thomas wasn’t going to stop him. Hell, he _couldn’t_ stop him. But that was beside the point.

The point was, even if Alexander had decided to shave his head bald and put on green lipstick, Thomas was sure his idiot-in-love brain would still, somehow, find the man beautiful. (Although Thomas mentally cringed at the idea of bald Alexander.)

“Good,” Alexander said. “But, I mean, if you really want an explanation, I can give you one. Though you’ll probably be dissatisfied with it…”

Thomas kissed away his next words. “Let me guess,” he said. “You were bored?”

Alexander’s lips curved. “I was bored,” he agreed.

\---

The next morning, Alexander found himself before the bathroom mirror, face to face with a reflection of a person who seemed like he hadn’t slept in the past week or so.

The reason? Thomas Jefferson.

Alexander had been woken up that morning by Thomas’s chuckle. When he’d asked why, Thomas had told him to go look in the mirror. In response, Alexander had stuck out his tongue, turned over, and gone back to sleep.

Now, he sucked in a deep breath, let out a sigh, and got to work cleaning the smudged eyeshadow from around his eyes. (It was Thomas’s fault, because last night the man had kissed around Alexander’s eyes so many fucking times, his lips pressing down so painfully gently… Though, judging by his reflection right now, perhaps Alexander had applied too generous an amount of eyeshadow.)

Oh, well--Alexander felt zero regret. A thrill shivered through him at the memory of Thomas’s hooded gaze as he stood beside the bed, looking down at him. In wonder. In awe. In _love._ Yes, that was what it’d felt like, and it filled Alexander with an inexplicable _happiness._

The way Thomas had stared at him--it was a look that made Alexander willingly believe foolish things, like that forever could be promised, that broken things were not useless, that there could be magnificence within insignificance: because here they were, in a world that knew nothing of them, but somehow that was perfectly fine. They were perfectly fine.

Despite their bickering, their mutual insults, despite their history and the memories they hadn’t yet had the chance or courage to confess to each other--Alexander felt like he belonged.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, THANK YOU to everyone who is reading this!
> 
> I know this hasn't been the most exciting of stories--there weren't many characters, and the main antagonist wasn't even a person--but I wanted to write it, because Thomas Jefferson's hypocrisy fascinated me, because I've always been wondering how historical figures would fare in the modern world, because historical figures aren't _perfect_ , and neither are we.
> 
> As I was writing this story, I kept thinking about it--whether the historical Jefferson should be condemned if he _had_ been involved with Sally Hemings. And even if he hadn't, should he be excused for his slaveholding?
> 
> Perhaps disappointingly, I still haven't arrived at a solid answer. Certainly Jefferson hadn't been the only slaveholder who "believed in" the rights of an individual; he just happened to have penned the Declaration of Independence. Does that make him more or less a hypocrite?  
> He was in debt for much of his life, and his slaves constituted a large portion of his collateral--does that fact excuse his not freeing them? Surely it does make his choices more understandable, but I personally don't think it serves well as a justification.  
> But then, is it fair of us to judge Jefferson through our own lenses? Shouldn't we consider the differences between society's values back then and now? _Are_ we more humane now? More fair? More "right"?
> 
> These were the sort of controversies playing out in my mind as I worked on this story. To some of them I've arrived at an answer, but to most, I'm ambivalent. Thinking about them was as tiring as it was fun, but I'm glad to have thought about them.
> 
> BTW: book rec: _Spinning Silver_ by Naomi Novik, fantasy/folklore/good writing


End file.
